The Skeleton Room (9 page)

They found Lisa in the beauty salon sipping a cup of coffee. She wore starched white, a parody of a nurse’s uniform. Her hair
was scraped up into a ponytail, but wisps of blonde hair escaped at the sides, transforming the look from clinical to glamorous.
Rachel found herself wondering how long it took to put on the mask of make-up each morning.

‘I can’t be long,’ Lisa began. ‘I’ve got a bikini-line waxing in twenty minutes.’

Trish winced at the thought of this modern form of torture but Rachel said nothing. There were things she needed to ask Lisa
– and any other members of the staff who knew Sally Gilbert. The waxing might have to wait.

‘We wanted to ask you a few more questions about Sally. We’re now treating her death as suspicious.’

A wave of shock passed beneath the thick mask of foundation. ‘You mean she was murdered?’

‘It’s likely. Yes. Did Sally know Monks Island at all?’

Lisa hesitated, studying her long scarlet nails.

‘Did you ever hear her mention Monks Island?’ Rachel prompted. Lisa was hiding something and she knew it.

‘Yes. She . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘That Mike she was seeing – he took her there for a meal once. They went to the hotel. She told me all about it . . . full
of it, she was. Said it was the best meal she’d ever had. Expensive, mind. But he paid,’ she added triumphantly.

Rachel, disappointed that the message of female equality didn’t seem to have filtered through to some quarters, took her notebook
from her handbag and began to write.

‘We’d like to talk to this Mike . . . just so that we can eliminate him from our enquiries. I know you said you didn’t know
his surname or where he lived, but is there anything you can remember; anything she said about him that you might not have
thought was important at the time?’

Lisa put her cup down on a stainless-steel trolley and glanced at the watch pinned to the front of her uniform, as though
she were a nurse taking a patient’s pulse.

‘He worked shifts, I remember that much. And I think he was married – I mean, he must have been or she wouldn’t have been
so secretive. She wasn’t scared of Trevor finding out but she still wouldn’t say much about him to me. I mean, if he wasn’t
married she’d have been showing him
off to me, wouldn’t she. It must have been him who was holding back.’

‘But he still took her to Monks Island for a meal? He can’t have been short of a bob or two.’ Rachel turned to Trish, who
nodded in agreement.

‘She never mentioned he was rich or anything. She was really cagey.’

‘As if she was ashamed of him?’ Trish suggested.

‘No. I don’t think it was that.’

‘Could it be somebody who works here? Or a guest in the hotel? Someone who comes to Tradmouth regularly on business, for instance?’

Lisa shook her blonde head and the ponytail bobbed from side to side. ‘I would have known if it was anyone here. And I can’t
think of a Mike on the staff who’d fit the bill. There’s a young lad in the kitchens and the manager’s called Mike but I’m
sure I would have known if it was him. No. From the way she talked, I’m certain he didn’t work here. I’d have known.’

Rachel didn’t doubt the truth of her last statement. ‘When did the affair start?’

‘About six months ago we were having lunch and she said she’d met this man. I was a bit shocked really. I’d always thought
she was quite happy with Trevor. I mean, Trevor’s dull but they had a nice house and . . . well, you know what I mean.’

Rachel nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘She used to tell Trevor she was going out with me but she’d go out with this Mike instead. After a while she got bolder and
she told Trevor I’d split up with a boyfriend or something and that I wanted her to stay the night. Of course, she spent the
night with this Mike, didn’t she. I didn’t like it, though. I didn’t mind her using me as an alibi for the odd evening . .
. but nights . . . I told her.’

‘And what did she say?’

Lisa began to study her nails again. ‘By the time I got round to telling her, the affair was cooling off. Then a
couple of weeks later she came into work one morning and said she’d split up with him. But that didn’t stop her leaving Trevor.
She was fed up with him by then. I said she could stay with me – she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Her mum was dead and
her dad had married again so he didn’t want her.’

‘But Trevor did.’

Lisa looked up. ‘Yeah. I suppose he did. Why were you asking about Monks Island? Wasn’t she found near Millicombe?’

‘We think that’s where she was killed. The currents carried her body round to . . .’

‘Yeah, I see.’ Lisa didn’t want to hear the details.

‘You knew Sally well. Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm her? Had she argued with anyone at work? Anything?’

‘Everyone liked Sally,’ Lisa stated simply.

‘And Trevor? Would you say Sally could have driven him to kill her? He must have had a lot to put up with. A lot of men would
snap if . . .’

‘No. Trevor’s a pussy cat. He’d never have harmed her.’

Rachel caught Trish’s eye. The pussy cats on her parents’ farm had no hesitation in committing murder if some innocent mouse
happened to cross their path.

She suddenly remembered what she wanted to ask. ‘That letter you mentioned – the one she received just before she died. Trevor
said he forwarded it to her. He suspected it was from a solicitor. Had she been to see a solicitor about a divorce?’

‘No. I don’t think she’d got round to it. I mean, it’s a big step, isn’t it? And I’m sure she would have mentioned it.’

Rachel tried again. ‘Do you think the letter was from someone she’d arranged to meet? I mean, did she read the letter and
then say that she was going to meet someone?’

Lisa thought for a moment. ‘Yeah. That’s the impression I got. She read it and seemed sort of . . . excited and said that
she might have something to celebrate later.
Then she said she was going out.’

‘And she took the letter with her?’

‘Yes. But I think she might have left the envelope lying around. I’ll have a look – see if I can find it.’ She looked at the
watch again. ‘Look, is that all? My lady’s due in five minutes for her bikini line and I’m dying for a wee.’

Rachel couldn’t think of any more questions so she stood up. ‘If you come across that envelope, can you let me know?’ She
handed Lisa her card.

‘Sure,’ Lisa answered dismissively.

As Rachel left, she had an uneasy feeling that something Lisa had said was important. It was just a question of working out
what it was.

The South Devon Yellow Pages lay open on the double bed in Harry Marchbank’s room on the first floor of the Trad View Guest
House on Newpen Road. Harry sprawled beside the directory on the rumpled duvet, flicking the pages. He had rung round all
the hotels and guest houses and some of the places which dealt with holiday lets but had drawn a blank so far. No single man.
Nobody answering Robin Carrington’s description.

He reached for the photograph that lay on his bedside table; a holiday snap of a young man in a brightly patterned shirt and
sunglasses, taken on his honeymoon: the clearest photo he could find. Carrington. He stared at it, willing it to give up its
secret. ‘Where are you, you bastard?’ he muttered to the image.

He slid from the bed and walked to the dressing table, where he examined himself in the mirror. He looked at the round unshaven
face, topped by thinning hair. He was ten years younger than Gerry Heffernan but, looking at the bags beneath his eyes and
the deep furrows in his skin, he probably looked the same age. Too much booze, too many cigarettes – although he did try to
give up from time to time. Too many women.

He had never felt settled in Tradmouth. He had always
longed for London, for something a small town couldn’t offer. When he was in his early twenties he had worked in the capital
for two years. They had been good years and there had been a woman there who was special. But then his father had had his
stroke and Harry had returned to Devon. He would have gone back to London after his father’s death but by then he had married
a Tradmouth girl: that had been a big mistake. There were no children. Perhaps if there had been he wouldn’t be standing here
alone in a cheap guest house; he wouldn’t be searching for Robin Carrington.

He went into the tiny en suite bathroom and shaved, rinsing his face several times as though the water would bestow him with
new life, new vitality. Half an hour later he was ready to face the world. There were a couple of holiday letting agencies
that he wanted to visit personally, armed with Carrington’s photograph.

He left the guest house, grateful that the landlady was nowhere to be seen. She was a nosey cow who showed too much interest
in other people’s business. After closing the front door behind him quietly, he stepped out onto the pavement and began to
walk down the sloping road towards the centre of the town.

He made for the High Street, his hands in his trouser pockets. It was pleasantly warm and too early in the year for the worst
of the summer crowds. You couldn’t move on these pavements in August. Looking up at the overhanging black-and-white buildings,
he felt no pang of regret that he had left this place for the bustle of the metropolis. He had done the right thing.

Looking to his right down the narrow side streets, he could see the river, sparkling in the sun. Harry pulled a face. He had
always hated boats and the sort of people who sailed on them – Gerry Heffernan in particular.

He turned down one of these streets and walked towards the waterfront. The office he was looking for was on his left, with
photographs of properties displayed in its window. He pushed the glass door open and walked in, but
ten minutes later he walked out again. No luck.

But there were two more places to try in Tradmouth before he spread his net wider and ventured out to Neston or Dukesbridge.
He strolled down towards the quayside, making for a row of vacant benches. When he reached his destination he kicked at a
seagull scavenging at his feet before sitting down and fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette.

Harry inhaled the smoke and stared out at the river. He watched the ferry scuttling back and forth and the yachts gliding
silently across the water as seagulls screeched overhead. He sat back and studied the faces of the passers-by and the people
on the decks of the moored yachts. He was looking for one face in particular but so far he was having no luck.

There was an old-fashioned red telephone box about ten yards to his right, near a large cannon which pointed out to sea, the
relic of some long-forgotten war. Red telephone boxes were a rarity in the modern world but this one had been preserved because
of its setting on the picturesque waterfront. The powers that be had probably concluded, wisely, that crass modernity would
look out of place.

Harry froze and the cigarette fell from his fingers. There was a man walking slowly past the phone box, gazing out at the
boats on the river. It was him. It was Carrington. He’d know him anywhere.

Harry’s heart beat faster, hammering in his chest, preparing for pursuit. But as he stood up the man near the phone box spotted
him and began to hurry away, dodging through the queue of cars waiting for the car ferry. Harry gave chase but his quarry
was younger and faster. However, the rush of adrenalin made Harry carry on, running, one foot in front of the other, breathless.
He reached the High Street and looked from left to right. People. Men, women and children. But no Robin Carrington. He struggled
for breath, bent double, uncomfortably aware of the pain passing through his chest and left arm.

It had been Robin Carrington; he’d know the bastard anywhere, was his last thought before he collapsed on the hard, grey pavement.

George Marbis grasped my hand, his skinny fingers holding me like the claws of some desperate, dying animal. ‘Forgiveness,’
he whispered. ‘Is there forgiveness?’ I assured him that the Lord forgives any man who puts his trust in Him and sincerely
repents of his sins.

‘But there is worse,’ he said. ‘Much worse. Will I still be forgiven?’

I repeated my assurance but Marbis appeared to find no comfort in my words.

‘I must tell all, Reverend, then you must judge for yourself.’ I told him not to speak if it tired him but I could sense his
spirit would know no rest until he had confessed all. I allowed him to continue, assuring him every now and then that I was
still listening to his sorry tale.

It seemed that at the age of fifteen George Marbis had joined the wreckers at their work and the deeds he had witnessed as
an innocent child became his own deeds. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.

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

‘Rachel’s been here already,’ Wesley said as he parked the
car on the crunching gravel outside the Tradfield Manor Hotel.

‘Well, there’s no reason why she should get all the fun. Brought your cossie?’

‘My what?’

‘Your cossie . . . swimming costume. They’ve got a health club with a pool.’

‘I always thought swimming was like drinking – not something to be done when you’re on duty.’ There were times when Wesley
never quite knew whether Heffernan was being serious. He certainly wouldn’t have put it past him to conduct interviews in
the shallow end of the pool if he thought he could get away with it.

Heffernan grinned, showing an uneven set of teeth. ‘Only joking, Wes. I can’t swim.’

Gerry Heffernan had served as a first officer in the merchant navy before joining the force, even had his master’s certificate,
and what leisure time he didn’t spend singing in the choir at St Margaret’s was spent aboard the
Rosie May
, the vessel he had restored lovingly after his wife’s death. Wesley found the idea of a man who had lived his life so close
to the sea being unable to swim rather bizarre. And he said as much.

Heffernan shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, Wes. Sailors never learn to swim . . . if the sea knows that you don’t trust
her she takes her revenge.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows.

‘I was born with a caul,’ Heffernan continued.

‘A what?’

‘A caul – a membrane around my head. My mum kept it and I’ve still got it in a tin at home. It’s supposed to save you from
drowning.’

Wesley knew sailors were a superstitious lot but he had hardly expected it of the chief inspector. ‘You’re joking, aren’t
you?’

Heffernan said nothing as he climbed out of the car and Wesley sensed that he had been deadly serious. Gerry
Heffernan constantly surprised him.

Wesley had to quicken his steps to keep up as Heffernan marched towards the hotel’s main entrance. At least the boss was wearing
a jacket today and a shirt that had had a passing encounter with an iron, however brief. He looked moderately presentable,
and Wesley wondered whether this was his daughter, Rosie’s, influence. Since the death of his wife, Gerry Heffernan had been
in sore need of a bit of care and attention.

‘Why are we here exactly?’

‘I want to find out everything I can about Sally Gilbert.’

‘But Rachel and Trish have already spoken to Lisa Marriott.’

‘But I don’t want a friend’s point of view, Wes. Friends only give the authorised version out of loyalty. I want to find people
who didn’t like her . . . or didn’t have any opinion one way or the other. I want to get at the truth. And she might not have
told Lisa Marriott everything. There might be someone else around here who knows Sally Gilbert’s little secrets. Some of the
men, for instance.’

Wesley couldn’t argue with that. He followed as the chief inspector marched to the hotel’s reception and asked to see the
manager. The production of his warrant card ensured that his request was dealt with swiftly by the business-like young woman
behind the desk. Wesley tried to imagine Sally there and failed. There was a pile of leaflets on the desk arranged in an elegant
fan. A special offer: two meals for the price of one. Wesley picked a couple up and put them in his pocket. It was time he
and Pam had an evening out.

A man emerged from a door marked ‘Private’ at the side of the reception area. He was, Wesley guessed, in his late thirties.
He wore a dark suit with a perfectly knotted blue silk tie, a uniform which marked him out as surely as if he had a placard
with the word ‘Manager’ hanging around his neck. Wesley held out his hand and introduced himself.

‘Mike Cumberland. Manager,’ the man announced,
businesslike. He ran his fingers through his dark, receding hair and turned. They followed him into his office.

‘We’re making enquiries about one of your employees; a Mrs Sally Gilbert. You’ll have heard she was found dead a couple of
days ago?’

Mike Cumberland nodded. Wesley watched his eyes but they were giving nothing away.

‘The thing is, Mr Cumberland,’ Heffernan went on, ‘we’re now treating her death as suspicious so we want to interview all
her colleagues: not the whole staff, just the people who worked with her directly. Can you arrange somewhere private where
we can . . .’

‘Of course. No problem. You think she was murdered?’ He arranged his features into an expression of shocked concern. ‘We all
assumed she’d met with some sort of accident.’

‘As my colleague said, sir, we’re treating her death as suspicious.’ There was something about Mike Cumberland that made Wesley
feel that he had to be on his best and most formal behaviour. ‘How well did you know her?’

‘We were colleagues,’ was the non-committal reply.

‘Oh aye?’ Heffernan looked sceptical.

Mike Cumberland blushed. ‘I can assure you that my relationship with Sally was purely that of manager and receptionist.’

Heffernan leaned forward and looked the manager in the eye. ‘I’ve heard of kids playing doctors and nurses . . . is manager
and receptionist the same, then?’

Wesley sat, expressionless. Sometimes Heffernan didn’t realise that not everyone shared his sense of humour. He watched Cumberland’s
face, but he was relieved to see that the man hadn’t taken offence. In face he was smiling.

‘I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. As I said, my relationship with Sally was purely business.’

‘Did you find her attractive?’

Cumberland hesitated, blushing. ‘If you want an honest answer, no. She wasn’t my type.’

‘Do you know if she had any particular friends on the staff here?’

‘There was Lisa Marriott, of course – she’s one of our beauticians. Apart from that, she seemed to be friendly with everyone.
And before you ask, I didn’t know much about her private life. I don’t consider it my job to pry into my employees’ affairs
unless it’s affecting their work.’

‘She left her husband a couple of weeks ago. Did you know about that?’

‘I hear gossip. But as it didn’t affect her work at all, I took no notice. That was her business.’

The office door opened and a man walked in. He was tall, well over six feet, with a shock of grey hair and piercing blue eyes.
Mike Cumberland stood up and looked guilty, like a schoolboy who had been caught doing something unsavoury behind the bike
sheds. The newcomer was no mere colleague. He was a man with authority.

‘I assume these gentlemen are from the police.’ The man looked Wesley and Heffernan up and down.

‘Yes.’ The manager was showing telltale signs of being flustered. ‘This is, er . . .’

‘Detective Inspector Peterson and Detective Chief Inspector Heffernan.’ Wesley felt he ought to cover up the manager’s lapse
of memory. ‘And you are?’ He knew quite well who the man was but he wasn’t feeling particularly deferential.

‘I’m Dominic Kilburn. I own this hotel.’ He looked at the two detectives as though he expected them to be impressed. Then
he thought for a moment before pointing an accusing finger at them. ‘Heffernan and Peterson. You’re the pair who are holding
up the work on Chadleigh Hall. You’ve sealed off a couple of my rooms. When can I get my men back to work?’

Heffernan opened his mouth but Wesley spoke first. ‘We found human remains at Chadleigh Hall and it appears to be a case of
murder. We’re obliged to investigate . . .’

‘Yes, but surely you can let my men get on with the
work. Presumably you’ve taken these remains off the premises and . . .’

‘I’m afraid the rooms have to remain sealed off for the time being. I can assure you, we won’t take any longer than we have
to,’ Wesley lied. He’d taken a dislike to Dominic Kilburn and he felt that a little inconvenience might do the man good.

‘Yes, but when . . .’

‘When we’ve finished,’ said Heffernan bluntly. ‘Okay?’

Wesley expected fireworks; threats of tale-telling to the Chief Constable. But Kilburn nodded brusquely and looked at Heffernan
with something approaching curiosity. Wesley suspected that not many people stood up to Dominic Kilburn.

Mike Cumberland was watching nervously. ‘If that’s all, gentlemen, I’ll arrange that room for you.’

‘What’s this?’ Kilburn asked, suspicious.

‘One of your staff has died in suspicious circumstances. I presume you have no objection if we interview her colleagues. We
won’t take longer than necessary.’

Kilburn opened his mouth to protest then decided resistance was useless. He nodded. ‘Of course my staff will do their best
to cooperate with the police. That goes without saying.’

‘Did you know Sally Gilbert, sir?’

‘Sally . . .’ Kilburn looked puzzled and turned to Mike Cumberland, as if for help.

‘One of our receptionists, Mr Kilburn. Dark hair, about five foot five . . .’

‘Can’t say I know her.’

Wesley had a nagging feeling that Kilburn wasn’t telling the truth, but he acknowledged that he could be mistaken. He knew
that if Kilburn swore that grass was green he wouldn’t be inclined to believe him. Prejudice, he thought philosophically as
he left the office, takes many forms.

But work called, and the two policemen were shown to the meeting room where they would conduct their interviews
with the staff who knew Sally Gilbert.

It was going to be a long day.

Harry Marchbank tore the oxygen mask off his face. Why did this have to happen now, just when he had Carrington in his sights?

He tried to sit up but the effort made him breathless and he slumped back onto his pillow again. He couldn’t stay here, helpless
in hospital. He couldn’t let Carrington go free, not now he knew he was in the area. A small, plump nurse bustled past and
Harry raised his hand, trying to attract her attention. But she was on her way to another patient and it was a few minutes
before she returned.

‘Now you know you shouldn’t have pulled your mask off, you naughty boy,’ she said with bossy disapproval. ‘Come along. Put
it back.’

Harry, who hadn’t been called a naughty boy since he was twelve, felt he had no option than to obey. There was something strangely
comforting about being looked after by a motherly figure who had your welfare at heart. Harry felt suddenly meek and safe,
as if he’d regressed to the cosy, cocooned days of childhood.

‘I want the phone,’ he said, gazing into the nurse’s blue eyes.

‘You should rest.’

‘I’ve got to make a call.’

The nurse knew the telltale signs. Sometimes it was better to give in than to allow the patient to become agitated. ‘I’ll
see what I can do,’ she said in a soothing voice.

‘You do that, love. And make it quick, eh.’

‘Put your mask back on,’ the nurse ordered brusquely. The man was beginning to annoy her, but she wheeled the telephone trolley
to his bed to prevent a rise in his blood pressure.

Two minutes later Harry Marchbank was speaking to a puzzled Steve Carstairs.

*

Keith and Andy had gone off in the van, leaving instructions that Sam Heffernan was to mow the lawn. It was part of the
regular contract, they had explained, smirking. When Tradmouth Landscapes weren’t providing Mrs Sanders with a new pond, pathways,
fencing and patio, they tidied her garden every week. Keith and Andy had taken the lawnmower out of a brick outhouse before
going off for ‘supplies’. Sam was about to say that he didn’t realise that pubs sold garden equipment, but he thought better
of it. It was probably best not to make waves. He was the new boy; the student. It’d be wise to keep his head down.

The sweat dripped off his face as he pushed the heavy petrol mower up and down the lawn, leaving satisfying stripes behind
him. He was used to hard work – assisting at the birth of a calf can be quite taxing – but not at such a sustained level.
At least, he told himself, he would be fit by the time he returned to Liverpool at the end of the summer.

As he was pushing the mower back towards the house, he spotted a sun lounger near the back door which hadn’t been there a
minute before. On it sat a young man, around Sam’s own age or possibly younger. He wore checked shorts and dark glasses and
swigged lager from a can. Although Sam couldn’t see his eyes, he sensed that he was watching him.

Self-consciously, he carried on mowing, walking slowly up and down, avoiding looking at the newcomer. But the time came when
he had to switch the engine off and return the machine to the outhouse.

He was dragging the great oily beast back to its home when he heard a languid voice saying, ‘You’re new.’

Sam stopped. ‘Yeah.’ He was about to walk on when the young man spoke again.

‘You the student?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I thought so. Auntie Carole’s mentioned you. I’m Jason Wilde, by the way – the prodigal nephew. My mum’s rarely at home so
I come to Auntie Carole’s for a few home comforts. But then you’ve met my Auntie Carole, so you’ll
know what I mean. She’s my dad’s sister but I can’t see any resemblance myself.’ He smirked unpleasantly, and Sam concluded
that all was not well between father and son.