The Jackal Man (4 page)

The call had come in from Trish Walton: Clare Mayers had regained consciousness. But when she told Gerry Heffernan about Clare’s
indistinct words, he made the assumption that the sedation the girl must have been given was making her hallucinate. A man
with the head of a dog.

But Wesley couldn’t forget that the Neston attacker had worn an animal mask of sorts, albeit a cartoon version. Maybe after
the first attack he’d found that frightening a woman and robbing her of her dignity wasn’t enough. Maybe he’d branched out
into attempted murder.

Some of the team had gone over to Neston Police Station to talk to the officers who’d dealt with the assault investigation.
Although the MO had changed there were enough similarities to ring alarm bells – the possibility of an animal mask; the time
of day, and the fact that the victims were both walking home from a pub.

Gerry had given orders that all known sex offenders in the
area were to be traced, interviewed and, where appropriate, eliminated from the enquiry. Wesley looked at his watch: he didn’t
have long to grab some lunch. Just long enough to meet Ian Petrie for half an hour at the Trad mouth Castle Hotel. After squaring
it with Gerry he grabbed his coat from the hooks by the incident room door and hurried out, hoping that nobody would comment
on his departure.

He dashed out of the building, hugging his coat around his body against the biting wind blowing in from the grey river. It
had started to rain and the drops felt like bullets of ice as they landed on his warm skin. In summer the seats in the Memorial
Gardens were always occupied by tourists and those with too much time on their hands but today they were empty and glistened
with damp. As Wesley rushed past them some of the little plaques fixed to their backs caught his eye: people who’d loved the
place and people who’d enjoyed happy hours there; touching little messages from the dead.

The tide was in and the small boats in the enclosed harbour bobbed energetically like excited children. Wesley could see the
hotel to his right and the entrance looked welcoming. And warm.

He made his way to the Ship Bar, a perfect example of the cosy English inn with deeply upholstered seating and maritime knick-knacks
hanging from low beams. He stood for a moment in the doorway and the enticing aroma of hot pub lunches made him realise he
was hungry. He spotted Ian Petrie sitting in an armchair in the corner, a half-full pint glass in front of him, staring into
the dancing flames of a log fire. As Wesley approached he looked up and his pensive expression became a fixed smile of greeting.

‘Wesley. Good to see you.’ He held out his hand and
Wesley noticed that it was shaking a little. ‘Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.’

Wesley thanked him and as he sat down a young waitress came over to take their order – sandwiches for Wesley and fish and
chips for Ian. Wesley stuck to shandy, explaining that he needed to keep a clear head. Ian ordered another pint of a Devon
brewery’s strongest offering.

They spent five minutes catching up on news – old times and past crimes – and of course old colleagues: who was still in the
squad; who had left and what they were doing now. When Wesley asked after Ian’s wife, Sheila, Ian gave an enigmatic smile
and said she was fine. Wesley wondered if something was wrong with the marriage. ‘Fine’ covered a multitude of possibilities.

For all Ian’s attempts to appear relaxed and casual, Wesley sensed a tension, a forced quality to the smiles and jokes. Ian
looked tired. He had also lost quite a bit of weight and the lines around his bloodshot eyes had deepened into furrows – but
then it was over six years since they’d last met.

Ian suddenly abandoned the subject of the Met and looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Tradmouth’s a nice place. Can’t blame you for
settling here.’

‘It was originally Pam’s idea. She’s from round here and she was worried about her mother being on her own after her father
died. Not that her mother needs any looking after,’ he added with a rueful smile. He had always found the subject of his mother-in-law,
Della, an awkward one. ‘My sister’s down here too now: she married a vicar and she’s working as a GP in Neston, eight miles
away.’

When Ian didn’t reply Wesley feared that his family ramblings were boring him. He glanced at his watch, recalling the scene
of industry in the incident room and Clare Mayers
lying in the hospital nearby. It was time to get down to business and discover exactly what Ian Petrie wanted.

‘I really haven’t got long, I’m afraid. As I told you, a girl was attacked last night and we’re pulling out all the stops.’
He smiled apologetically. ‘You said you wanted to pick my brains.’

Ian took a long drink then replaced his glass carefully on the table. ‘I’m investigating a case of smuggled antiquities and
the trail’s led here, to South Devon.’

Wesley straightened his back, suddenly interested. He knew his time would be fully occupied with the Clare Mayers case but
it would do no harm to listen to what Petrie had to say. ‘Go on.’

Ian took another drink and began. ‘Various valuable Egyptian antiquities have been turning up in auction rooms around London.
It started a year ago when an expert from the British Museum identified one of them as coming from a certain dig in the Valley
of the Kings in the nineteen seventies and when we started looking closer we found that the provenance of the treasure in
question was a bit dodgy to say the least. We found more antiquities in a warehouse we raided. The artefacts were hidden inside
crude statues and tacky trinkets made for the tourist market and once they were back in this country the outer clay was broken
off to get at them. They shipped crateloads of the stuff over from Egypt under the noses of the authorities that way and then
sold them over here and in the States with fake provenances. I have to hand it to them, they were clever.’

‘Why Devon?’

‘One of the men we arrested – just a foot soldier as far as we can tell – said that an artist from this area created the fake
statues and trinkets. Whoever’s behind it – and we think we know who it is – sourced the dodgy artefacts in Egypt and
paid for this artist to go over and do his bit before exporting the stuff back to London as cheap tourist crap. Any ideas
who this artist might be?’

‘South Devon’s full of artists, Ian. You can’t move for them.’ The food arrived and he waited until the waitress had gone
before he continued. ‘And I can’t think of any who’d do that sort of work.’

‘A sculptor perhaps. Someone who’s come into money recently. The name Neston was mentioned.’

‘A lot of artists operate in Neston. It’s an arty sort of place.’

Ian leaned forward. ‘We need to find this man. The people we’ve got so far don’t know who’s organising all this but I reckon
the artist is pretty high up in the organisation. We think he’s called Ra, if that’s any help. Very appropriate – the Egyptian
sun god.’

‘It doesn’t ring any bells.’

Ian Petrie looked a little disappointed. ‘You were one of my best officers, Wesley. Pity you transferred to this backwater.
Wives often have a lot to answer for.’ He touched Wesley’s arm. ‘Look, if you ever fancy a return to the Met …’

‘Sorry, Ian. As backwaters go, this isn’t a bad one.’ He finished off his sandwich and pushed his plate away. ‘I’m sorry I
haven’t been much help. But when I have a minute I will ask around and I’ll let you know if I find anything.’ He looked at
his watch and stood up. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m afraid. It’s really good to see you.’ He held out his hand and Petrie shook it
firmly. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

As Wesley left the bar to walk back to the police station he fastened his coat against the blast of cold that met him outside
the front door.

At one time he’d known Ian well. But now he felt that his
old boss almost seemed like a stranger, although he wasn’t quite sure what had changed. A new weariness perhaps; or a strain
that hadn’t been there before: the smile too forced, or a false note when he’d discussed the case. Or maybe he was imagining
things.

He hurried back to the police station. He’d hardly liked to spell it out to Ian but the smuggling of Egyptian antiquities
was pretty low on his list of priorities at that moment.

Clare Mayers was asleep when Wesley arrived at Tradmouth Hospital with Gerry Heffernan by his side. Although they’d agreed
that Trish Walton should do most of the questioning, Gerry wanted to hear for himself what the girl had to say. Wesley knew
this would have the added advantage of reassuring her anxious mother that the man in charge was taking a hands-on interest.

Wesley was surprised to find that the mother wasn’t hovering at her daughter’s bedside. According to Trish, Karen Mayers had
gone to work but she’d be there as soon as she could. She was a single mother and there was no regular partner about so she
couldn’t afford to take much time off. When Trish had asked Karen some probing questions about Clare’s biological father,
she had said that there was no way she wanted him traced and told about his daughter’s misfortune. Wesley asked Trish to keep
on probing gently; the man was the victim’s father after all, and he was bound to want to know. Trish gave him a conspiratorial
smile and said she’d do her best.

Gerry had told Trish to go and get herself a cup of tea before slumping down on the chair she had just vacated.

‘Has someone been in touch with her school? We need to talk to the friends she was with. The attacker might have
been in the pub watching her – he might have seen her go off down that lane on her own and followed in his car. The friends
might have seen him.’

‘Rach is going to the school this afternoon to take their statements.’

As Gerry opened his mouth to answer a young man appeared, walking towards them down the corridor. He had dark curly hair and
the stethoscope hanging around his neck like a chain of office indicated that he was a doctor, albeit a youthful and junior
one. He was making straight for the room where Clare Mayers lay asleep and, as this was the first medically qualified person
Wesley had seen since his arrival, he wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass him by.

He approached the doctor and flashed his warrant card but the medical man looked unimpressed. ‘Can you tell us when we can
interview her?’

The doctor didn’t answer. Instead he pushed open the door to Clare’s room and disappeared inside. A minute or so later he
appeared again with a file in his hand. He studied it for a few moments then looked up at Wesley.

‘She’s been lucky. If she’d been found a couple of minutes later … Curtains.’

He made a slashing motion across his throat and Wesley found himself hoping that he used a gentler approach when relatives
were present. Wesley, like all policemen, understood the appeal of gallows humour but there was a time and a place for everything.

‘Will she be able to talk to us soon?’

‘Someone’s just tried to garrotte her so she won’t be giving any long speeches or singing the lead in
Tosca
any time soon but she might be able to manage an inelegant croak.’

‘So she’ll pull through?’ Gerry asked.

Wesley could tell from the way his boss asked the question that the doctor was starting to irritate him.

‘The vocal cords are bruised but there’s no lasting damage as far as we can tell. She should be fine. Fortunately chummy didn’t
have time to do his worst.’

‘Chummy?’

Wesley couldn’t tell whether Gerry was mildly amused or about to tell the young medic a few unpleasant facts of life.

‘I thought that’s what you called them. Criminals, I mean.’

‘Not since Dixon of Dock Green was a lad,’ Gerry muttered, rolling his eyes.

The doctor grinned and reopened the door to Clare’s room. ‘I’ll put this file back and then my shift’s finished. If she’s
awake when I go in you can try and have a word with her.’

‘All right for some,’ Gerry muttered under his breath as he watched the young man enter the room.

But when he re-emerged their luck was out. Clare was still fast asleep, sedated, no doubt, to aid her recovery. As they prepared
to leave they heard a noise. Trish was coming down the corridor towards them and the woman by her side was walking in step,
plucking at her sleeve anxiously, asking questions. Wesley recognised an anxious mother when he saw one. And this one looked
worried. He looked round for the young doctor, hoping he would talk to her and put her mind at ease, but he’d disappeared
off in the other direction. So much for communication.

Trish made the introductions and Karen Mayers shook their hands limply.

‘We’ve just been talking to the doctor,’ Wesley said, thinking that the woman deserved some sort of reassurance. ‘He doesn’t
think there’s any lasting damage.’

Somehow this news didn’t improve Karen’s mood. She still wore the strained expression of someone who’s expecting the worst.

She ignored Wesley and looked Gerry in the eye. ‘Has he touched her? Has he … has he interfered with her?’ She jerked
her head towards Trish. ‘I’ve asked her but she won’t tell me.’

‘No, love,’ Gerry said gently. ‘He’s not touched her. We’re sure about that.’

Karen didn’t seem very reassured by Gerry’s words. ‘I’ll kill him.’ She almost spat the words. ‘When I find him I’m going
to kill him.’

‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll get him.’ Gerry’s voice was soothing. ‘We’ve got the whole team after him.’

‘But he’s buggered off. I don’t know where he is.’

Wesley suddenly realised that she was talking about one man in particular rather than some nebulous attacker in the shadows.
‘Who do you mean, Karen? What’s his name?’

‘Alan Jakes, of course. My ex. He said she needed teaching a lesson but I never thought he’d do something like this.’

Neil Watson sat in Varley Castle’s palatial kitchen amongst the tall oak cupboards and its racks of crockery eating the vegetable
soup that Caroline had heated up for their lunch and, try as he might, he couldn’t get her words out of his mind. Her great-uncle
had killed four women.