The Jackal Man (34 page)

‘Mind if we take a look around?’

Guy sat quite still for a moment, breath held, as though he was making a decision. ‘Help yourself. But you won’t find anything.’

He sounded confident which probably meant they’d be wasting their time. Unless Kitchener was bluffing. They began to make
a cursory search of the cupboards and drawers. When they’d finished Gerry gave a brief shake of his head and Wesley saw relief
in Guy’s eyes.

‘Can you tell us where you were at the times of the recent murders?’

Guy made a great show of consulting his diary. Then he wrote down a list of his whereabouts and handed it to Wesley. ‘I’ve
written down the phone numbers of people I was with. They’ll back me up.’

They left the flat and walked slowly back to the car. The sky seemed lighter now and there were more dog walkers on the wide
expanse of damp sand beneath the promenade.

‘Is it my imagination or are we missing something?’ said Wesley as he unlocked the driver’s door.

‘No, Wes. I think Guy Kitchener’s in the clear. All this stuff about what his brother may or may not have done is probably
irrelevant. I reckon it’s pretty straightforward. Mary copied those murders back in the nineteen hundreds – either because
she’s mad or because she knew Isobel Grant was trying to blackmail her precious son and she wanted her out of the way and
used the other murders as a smokescreen. She picked on Pam to make a point … and at a time when Guy had a perfect alibi.’

‘He’s got alibis for most of the murders, that’s true. And
he seemed quite willing to give us his DNA. Anyway, why should he be frightened of what Isobel knew about his brother? Ben’s
dead and what he did had nothing to do with Guy.’

‘Although …’ Gerry paused and thought for a moment. ‘On the other hand, maybe there’s something we don’t know yet: maybe
Guy was more involved in Ben’s death than he’s led us to believe, and Isobel knew it.’

He looked at Wesley, his eyebrows raised questioningly, before clambering into the passenger seat. Wesley could only shake
his head. He felt so tired, it was almost as if he didn’t know what to think any more.

The frenzy that the terrible murders caused rather astonished me. The villagers lived in fear and all the talk amongst the
servants was of the Ripper as he was called by the ignorant folk of the district. But I knew that this was no evil monster
bent on bloodshed. I knew for sure that there was a purpose behind the deaths; that each detail had been planned meticulously.

By the time the fourth girl, Peggy Carr, went on her journey into the afterlife, the terror of the village and surrounding
area was almost tangible and all imagined that the killer was of monstrous appearance with slavering fangs and fiery eyes.
Their murderer stalked the woods and fields like a ravening beast, blood-soaked and terrible. How astonished they would have
been if they knew the truth.

When the police came to the castle I stood concealed in a doorway near the top of the stairs and listened. They wished to
know the whereabouts of John Varley. They had come to question him in connection with the murders.

How I smiled. But when I was with others my smile was hidden behind a mask of concern. How easy it is to dissemble.

Wesley had still heard nothing from Ian Petrie – he’d expected a phone call to discuss Robert Delaware’s role in the theft
of antiquities from Varley Castle at least – and he toyed with the idea of contacting him. The thought still nagged at the
back of Wesley’s mind that he owed his old boss something; support, maybe, in his darkest hour.

His mobile rang and he looked at the caller’s number. Neil. He had rather hoped it was Ian but he pressed the key to answer
the call.

‘What’s been going on?’ Neil said before Wesley had a chance to say hello.

‘We’ve got someone for the murders.’

‘I saw on the news that there’d been an arrest. Well done.’ There was a short silence. ‘You don’t sound over the moon. Anything
the matter?’

Wesley hesitated before replying. ‘The suspect tried to kill Pam.’

He heard Neil gasp. ‘Is she OK?’

‘She’s very shaken and she was taken to hospital to get checked out but apart from that … She’s taking time off work and
she’s staying with Maritia for a few days while I’m clearing this lot up. How are things up at Varley Castle?’

‘Busy.’ Neil lowered his voice. ‘Caroline’s recovering from her shock. It’s a good job me and Andy turned up when we did or
Delaware would have stripped the place. I guess there must be a ready market for those things … not that I can see the
appeal myself. I presume Delaware’s safely behind bars? You’ve not released him on bail or anything like that?’

‘No. He’s been charged and remanded in custody and we’ve rearrested his contact, Raymond Seed, as well. What are you up to?’

‘I’m holding the fort here on my own ’cause Andy’s in Exeter at the moment. As soon as he gets back we’ll bring all the stuff
Delaware was hiding at the cottage back to the castle to be catalogued. To be honest, Wes, this Egyptian stuff gives me the
creeps.’

Wesley opened his mouth to speak but he found it hard to get a word in while Neil was in such a talkative mood.

‘We’ve had the press here as well, wanting to take photos of where the 1903 murders happened. Caroline told them to get lost
but they took no notice.’

‘Look, Neil, I’ll have to go,’ Wesley said. A uniformed constable had just dumped a box on his desk and was standing there
expectantly, shifting from foot to foot.

‘Where’s this come from?’ he asked as he placed his mobile phone on the desk.

‘The Kitchener house. It was stashed in a cupboard by the
fireplace in the living room. DCI Heffernan told me to bring it in. He said there could be something important in it. I just
did as I was told and—’

‘That’s fine. Thanks,’ Wesley said with a half-hearted smile before the ‘only obeying orders’ speech could continue. The constable
scurried off.

Wesley glanced at his watch. He had promised to see Pam and the kids later at Maritia’s but he still had an hour or so. He
looked at the box – blue plastic, around two foot square and sixteen inches high. He manoeuvred the lid off and peered down
at the contents. It was filled with papers and photographs and on top there was an old book covered with marbled paper. He
picked it up and when he opened it he realised that it was some sort of journal, each foxed and yellowing page covered with
immaculate copperplate hand-writing – beautiful to look at but difficult to read. The name on the flyleaf was Eleanor Jane
Porton and the first entry bore the date September 1901. He placed it carefully on top of his files.

He began to take things out of the box – letters and old photographs. But a few of the pictures seemed more recent and a cardboard
folder – the kind used by professional photographers – caught Wesley’s eye.

When he opened it he felt the blood drain from his face. There, side by side, were two young men. The older was Guy Kitchener,
looking straight at the camera with his arm placed protectively around the other man’s shoulder. But it was the younger man
who interested Wesley. He was obviously the grown-up version of the child in the picture at Mary Kitchener’s cottage. This
was Ben. Ben the alleged killer. Ben who had, in turn, died.

Only he hadn’t died. If the boy in the photograph was Ben
Kitchener, he was still very much alive. And when Wesley had seen him very recently he’d been using a completely different
identity.

He picked up his phone and pressed speed dial.

Ged Farrow from Neston Animal Rescue Shelter had just put the last of the dogs into the van. Apart from one ill-natured llama
who was waiting to be taken to a farm near Ashburton, the sanctuary was clear of animals and his work was almost done.

Because the sanctuary and the shelter often helped each other out, he’d had dealings with Mary Kitchener for a few years now
and he found it hard to believe that she was under arrest for murdering those women. Ged had always prided himself on being
a good judge of people and he couldn’t believe he’d been so wrong about Mary. On the other hand, he’d always had the feeling
that there was something a little odd about her, as if she harboured some terrible secret – a sad burden she could share with
no other human being. Perhaps that’s why she had chosen the company of animals. Animals never judge.

As he was about to climb into the van he glanced back at the house and saw a shadowy shape at the window above the back door,
a shape that resolved itself into a face, briefly, before vanishing. He stood there frozen, wondering if it had been his imagination.

He knew the house was supposed to be empty but there was no way he was going to play the hero and investigate. Slowly, in
case he was being watched, he climbed into the driver’s seat and steered the van a few yards down the lane before stopping
the engine, oblivious to the barrage of barking that had just started up in the back. Then he took
his phone from his top pocket, hoping he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself.

Wesley had checked and double-checked. Their man hadn’t a reliable alibi for the time of any of the murders or for the attack
on Pam. But Mary had taken the blame and, if Wesley’s instincts hadn’t told him that the matter went much deeper, she would
have served a long prison sentence. Maybe even the rest of her life. A mother would do anything for her child – even sacrifice
her freedom.

He’d put in a call to the Met to enquire about unsolved murders of women in the London area. There were two that might have
fitted but there was no proof that Ben Kitchener had anything to do with either. Maybe he’d behaved himself in London until
he’d hit on a way to ensure that Isobel Grant never betrayed his secret, laying a false trail to confuse the police at the
same time. But maybe he’d been a bit too clever.

Wesley guessed that Isobel had seen Ben in Tradmouth. She’d recognised him and dreamed up her blackmail scheme as a way of
getting a place of her own away from her mother and the petty restrictions of home. However, she’d been stupid to underestimate
a man who’d killed before for the sheer power and pleasure of it. Perhaps he’d been longing for years to repeat the experience,
that ultimate adrenaline rush when the life of another human being is yours to take. Dominion over life and death. The chance
to play God. The thought made Wesley shudder. If he was right about all this, it meant that Ben Kitchener was a very dangerous
man indeed.

The call from Ged Farrow of the Neston Animal Rescue Shelter would normally have been treated as routine. But, under the circumstances,
his possible sighting of someone
inside Mary Kitchener’s supposedly empty house was treated as top priority.

Wesley felt apprehensive as he sat beside Gerry Heffernan in the back of the patrol car. He’d come face to face with killers
before but rarely one as cold and ruthless as this one. He’d heard once that most animals kill out of necessity, for food
or survival, and it was only cats who killed for pleasure. Cats and human beings.

The car glided to a halt some way down the lane from Mary’s house, Gerry having made it quite clear to their over-enthusiastic
driver that lights and sirens would be counter-productive.

‘Ready?’ he heard Gerry say as they stepped out of the car.

Wesley nodded. He had Mary’s door key ready and now he inserted it carefully into the lock, trying to make a silent entrance.
The door opened slowly and the two men stepped across the threshold. Once they were inside they stood quite still and listened.

Gerry gave Wesley’s arm a nudge. ‘Go on then.’

‘Do you think we should have brought back-up?’ Wesley spoke in a whisper. If there was someone in the house he didn’t want
to announce their arrival.

‘There’s one of him and there’s two of us. And we’ve got our stab vests on.’ Gerry tapped his chest but Wesley had rarely
seen him look so nervous.

Wesley went ahead, creeping across the carpet on the balls of his feet, pushing each door open gently, freezing every so often
to listen like an animal sniffing the air for predators, unsure whether he was the hunter or the hunted.

Once they’d checked downstairs Gerry pointed upwards and they began to climb to the next floor, cursing in whispers
whenever the stairs creaked. Then when they reached the landing they heard a faint scraping sound which seemed to be coming
from the ceiling above their heads.

‘The attic,’ Wesley mouthed.

Gerry nodded and followed as Wesley crept over the worn carpet towards the narrow staircase at the far end of the landing.
Then the door at the top of the stairs began to open slowly – a fraction at first, becoming wider and wider with a horror-film
creak – and Wesley came to an abrupt halt, ignoring Gerry’s urging hand pushing gently at his back. As soon as the DCI realised
what was happening he began to back off, feeling his way back down the landing but Wesley stood his ground, staring upwards
at the open door.

‘You’d better come down, Ben.’

The man framed in the doorway stared down at him. His eyes were so like Guy’s that Wesley cursed himself for not realising
that the two were related.

Ben Kitchener smiled. ‘Good to see you again, Wesley. How are you keeping?’

Wesley didn’t answer. There seemed to be something almost obscene about the casual, friendly enquiry. It was something that
belonged to Ben’s other persona – the one Neil had known back at Varley Castle when Ben Kitchener had been living under the
name he’d been using since the night all those years ago when he’d killed a man and thought it wise to disappear – the night
he’d become Andrew Beredace.

‘I was over in Exeter when I got a call from Guy. How’s Mum?’

‘She’s OK,’ Wesley answered. ‘Was the attack on my wife her idea or yours?’

‘Mum had nothing to do with it. When Guy told me
about Gemma I knew you were getting too close. I happened to be round here when your wife left a message on Mum’s answer
phone. I knew who she was and I thought it would be amusing if the wife of one of the investigating officers became my fourth
victim. I was waiting for your wife outside when she arrived and as soon as she came out I …’ A smile played on his lips.
‘She wasn’t supposed to survive, you know. Only Mum was looking out of the window when your wife left the house and she saw
what was happening. She came dashing out and took the knife off me before I could finish what I started. Women are so squeamish,
don’t you think? She even wrapped her in my sheet so she’d be decent.’ He shook his head, as though exasperated by his mother’s
weakness. ‘She doesn’t have the guts to kill.’

Wesley felt Gerry’s restraining hand on his arm, as though the DCI was half afraid he’d go for the man at the top of the stairs.
But Wesley took a step back.

‘You’re under arrest, Ben.’

The killer sighed. ‘I’ve spent the past years wearing a mask, Wesley, so to be honest it’s going to be a bit of a relief to
be myself again.’ He smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth, and began to walk slowly down the narrow stairs, hands in pockets
as though he had all the time in the world.