The Shadow Collector (3 page)

He’d told himself to think positive: they were all in it together; has-beens trying to earn a crust and resuscitate moribund
careers. He’d managed to make the final two, the others having been voted off one by one by the panel of experts and more
popular celebrities. However, he couldn’t shake off the suspicion that they’d retained him and Zac James for their entertainment
value rather than their agricultural skills. But money was money and, as his agent kept telling him, all publicity is good
publicity.

Apart from the strain of having to keep up the banter his public were used to from his glory days as a comedian and quiz-show
host, he was forced to share the house and the attention with Zac James. Zac was in his mid-thirties and fourteen years ago
he’d topped the charts as the lead singer of Ladbeat, a boy band that split up as soon as it had started a rapid downhill
slide from the pinnacle of fame. Recently Zac’s face had featured regularly in the more lurid tabloids and his struggle with
drink and drugs had been tediously well documented. Zac’s PR people reckoned appearing on
Celebrity Farm
would help him launch a solo career, but Rupert wasn’t convinced. Once they were alone and the cameras had stopped rolling,
Zac always seemed fragile and edgy as though he found the place and the situation deeply troubling. And his brooding jumpiness
was taking its toll on Rupert’s nerves.

Originally there had been six contestants. The first two to be voted off were a middle-aged soap actress whose roles had dried
up since her character had met an untimely end beneath the wheels of a tram, and an aging female former TV presenter whose
brushes with the cosmetic surgery industry had kept the tabloids happy until a better story came along.

Then there’d been Jackie Piper who’d left ten days ago, an androgynous singer/songwriter and arrogant little shit who’d thought
the programme would raise his elevated profile even higher. He’d attracted a horde of screaming teenage girls who’d been a
terrible irritation. But when their hero had departed, so had they.

Rupert had got on quite well with the man who’d been voted off the previous week; a disgraced former Member of Parliament
called Charles Cloaker who, having lost his seat following the expenses scandal, was now pursuing a career in the media with
dogged determination. Cloaker had been amiable company but Rupert suspected he was using
Celebrity Farm
and those around him for his own ends. But weren’t they all?

Now he was stuck with Zac. Two final competitors and a film crew on the edge of a village in the middle of nowhere. Rupert
knew how isolated West Fretham was: the village hadn’t changed in that way since 1994 when he’d done that summer season at
the Morbay Hippodrome just after he’d hit the big time.

There were few modern amenities at Jessop’s Farm. No central heating and certainly no luxuries. The TV company had chosen
the place to present the six products of spoilt, urban existence with a challenge that would amuse the viewers. It was a small
cable channel so everything was done on a shoestring. No gourmet catering vans and the crew were billeted in a rented cottage
in the village nearby. He just hoped the farmer, Joe Jessop, was being well paid for the disruption.

Rupert had just finished washing up after the homemade soup he’d made with the slug-infested cabbage provided: it had tasted
foul, as expected, but there would
have been no entertainment in success. He dried his hands on the damp tea towel, thinking that he needed to get out for a
while. Away from the shabby farmhouse, the ubiquitous cameras and the man who was destined to share his life for the next
week until the final fateful decision was made and the victor of
Celebrity Farm
crowned. At least, unlike in some reality shows, the contestants had the run of the farm when they weren’t actually filming,
and the crew were taking a break in the back parlour, playing cards as they always did, so if he went out now the cameras
weren’t likely to follow him up to the far field. Even though he was wary of the sheep, it was worth the risk of being mobbed
by an unpredictable woolly audience for a slice of precious privacy.

He walked into the kitchen, heading for the back door, and found Zac James sitting at the scrubbed pine table. He looked gaunt,
almost ill, with his pallid skin and his bleached blond hair, and the posing wanker was wearing his dark glasses indoors as
usual. Zac was so engrossed in his iPhone that he didn’t look up. He wasn’t supposed to have the phone and Rupert wondered
how he’d managed to get hold of it, but he wasn’t in the mood to ask questions. Besides, Zac looked edgy and beads of sweat
were forming on his forehead. Rupert assumed his coke habit was responsible. But that was really none of his business.

Fearing there might be a hidden camera left running somewhere, he fixed a wide grin to his face. ‘Hi, Zac, I’m just nipping
out to see a man about a sheepdog.’ When Zac ignored his feeble quip he hurried into the hallway, pulled on a pair of green
wellingtons and stepped outside.

He passed the barn where he’d been filmed earlier throwing feed to a trio of bored-looking hens and opened
the metal gate to freedom before tramping across a muddy field, his feet squelching into earth softened by days of relentless
drizzle. Then another gate, and another, until he was climbing the grassy hillside dotted with grazing sheep. From this higher
ground he could look down on the house and the outbuildings and if the grass beneath his feet hadn’t been wet, he would have
sat down and spent a leisurely half hour watching the comings and goings of the crew and the people who lived in the elegant
Georgian house next door – the house that had once been the village Rectory but was now home to some author he’d never heard
of. But instead of enjoying the view, Rupert began to wander up towards the top of the field. The hedge was too tall to see
over but there was an old metal gate in a gap further along, secured with a rusted padlock which clearly hadn’t been used
for decades. When he reached the gate he stopped and peered over at the sloping land on the other side. The grass was tall
and there was a dark copse of trees halfway down the hill. Around three hundred yards away, just before the land started to
rise again, he could see the pink cottage tucked into the hollow, half hidden by trees and vegetation.

He knew what the place was. He could hardly forget because he’d been in West Fretham at the time the girls vanished. He saw
a wisp of smoke rising from the cottage chimney. He’d heard Lilith Benley was due for release on licence and he’d wondered
whether she’d have the gall to return to her old home. Now it looked as though she had.

He stood staring at the cottage for a while but when he turned his head he glimpsed a flash of red on the ground further up
the field. The woman he’d seen earlier walking down the lane had been wearing a red coat. He’d noticed her because she’d looked
so out of place, as if she should
have been in a fashionable London street rather than walking in the Devon countryside.

Now here she was in the field with him; blonde, stick thin … and lying perfectly still on the lush grass next to the hedgerow.

After a few moments of hesitation, he shouted to her, earning himself reproachful stares from the assembled sheep.

‘Are you all right?’

When she didn’t respond he began to approach her slowly. Perhaps she’d fainted or had some sort of accident. The sheep were
glaring at him malevolently. Perhaps they’d attacked her and knocked her unconscious. He wasn’t quite sure what sheep were
capable of.

But as he drew closer he saw that her brown eyes were wide open, gazing in astonishment at the sky. And he saw a dark patch
of drying blood in the middle of her red coat, dotted with buzzing flies.

He backed away, heart pounding, and then he started to run as fast as he could, his feet skidding on the damp grass. And when
he reached the bottom of the field he stopped and vomited onto the ground, watched by sheep who looked bored, as though they’d
seen it all before.

Journal of Thomas Whitcombe, Captain in the King’s army, September 6th 1643

Exeter has fallen and is now for the King so Plymouth must be seized from the grasping hands of Parliament
.

I myself was present this day when our commander, Prince Maurice, sent orders to Sir Edmund Fortescue and Edward Seymour Esquire,
that the port of Tradmouth was to be brought under the King’s control. I heard one of the officers say that Tradmouth is the
most disloyal of towns, reluctant as it has been to pay the King’s taxes. The town is the place of my mother’s birth and I
hold it in some affection so I held my tongue
.

There is one there I know from visits to my mother’s kindred, a young woman who bewitched me five years ago with her dark
eyes and modest looks. I yearned for adventure in those days and the life of a soldier
.

Yet I think often upon Alison. That bewitcher of men
.

*

Even though Neil was impatient to return to the dig he knew this was a job that had to be done. Besides, Harriet Mumford had
provided him with a sandwich for lunch – smoked salmon no less – so it would have been rude to dash off.

‘How’s it going?’ he heard her ask in a little-girl voice he found slightly irritating.

‘Slowly. Have you asked Lee and the others if they’d give me a hand?’

‘I don’t think it’ll be a problem.’ He thought he saw her wink but that could have been his imagination. ‘I want to know what’s
down there as much as you do.’

Neil put his spade down and scratched his head. He’d decided to make a start on the cellar but it needed digging out properly
and a solitary archaeologist wasn’t making much impact. ‘I don’t think Lee likes me.’

Harriet raised her eyebrows. ‘If I say he’s got to help you, he will.’

Neil shrugged. When he’d attempted to speak to the builder he’d definitely sensed hostility. But perhaps it was nothing personal.
Perhaps all it needed was Harriet’s feminine powers of persuasion.

He climbed out of the cellar up the four visible steps. At present it was only three feet deep and the question of when it
had been filled in, and why, kept nagging at him.

‘When that panelling’s removed I think I should be here. It needs to be done very carefully.’

She smiled. ‘Sure.’

Neil looked at his watch. ‘I’d better go and check how they’re getting on up at Princes Bower but I’ll be back tomorrow. The
Conservation Officer’s paying another visit so he’ll want to talk to me.’

‘Evan says he should move in with us – save him the journey,’ said Harriet, rolling her eyes.

‘The perils of doing up a grade two star-listed building. You’ve got to put up with a lot of intrusion.’

Harriet’s small, clean hand brushed his, dislodging a little caked soil which drifted to the ground. ‘Some intrusions I don’t
mind.’ The touch was quite unexpected and he pulled his hand away as though he’d had an electric shock, immediately regretting
his over-reaction.

But she carried on talking as though she hadn’t noticed. ‘Before I nipped over to the studio I went on the Internet and found
a site about the history of Tradmouth. I printed some of it out.’ She took a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her
jeans and offered it to Neil but he shook his head. ‘I’ll look at it later when I’ve cleaned myself up.’

Harriet unfolded the paper and carried on talking. ‘It says here that Mercy Hall was owned by a Thomas Hadness who had Parliamentarian
sympathies. That’s the Roundheads, isn’t it?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘His wife Alison was accused of witchcraft and
hanged in 1643 just before the besieging Royalists took control of the town.’

‘That’s the Cavaliers,’ said Neil, trying to be helpful. ‘What is it they used to say? Cavaliers were wrong but romantic and
Roundheads were right but repulsive.’

Harriet’s eyes glazed over as if he was going into too much historical detail for her liking.

‘This fits in with your carving of the hanged woman in the garden,’ he said. ‘AH. Alison Hadness. And the date’s right.’

‘So she was a witch?’

‘Not necessarily. From what I recall if you didn’t like
someone back then you could accuse them of witchcraft and sit back and watch while they were tried … and maybe even hanged.’

‘So you don’t think she cast spells and cavorted with Satan?’ Harriet pouted in mock disappointment.

‘She probably just got on the wrong side of the woman next door.’

She put the sheet of paper down on a packing case and took a step closer. ‘I’ve always wanted to be an archaeologist,’ she
said. ‘It must be terribly exciting.’

‘There’s not much money in it but it has its moments.’ He kept the tone light. He felt a frisson of attraction, the sort of
frisson he knew was unwise to act upon, in spite of the invitation in her eyes. ‘Anyway, you’re a sculptor, aren’t you? That
must be much more exciting.’

She tilted her head to one side. ‘It’s mostly tourist stuff. Hares are very popular at the moment. They’re an ancient symbol
of femininity. Some believe they’re messengers of the Great Goddess, moving by moonlight between the human world and the realm
of the gods.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said. ‘I’d better get cleaned up and go or I’ll be late for my meeting.’

As soon as he’d said the words he heard a man’s voice calling Harriet’s name. He saw her flinch. Evan was home. Neil had met
him on several occasions and thought he looked as if he’d be useful in a fight. The sort of man who’d always made him feel
a little awkward.

‘I’ll be late tomorrow. I’ve got to visit the dig at Princes Bower first thing. I’m site director so it’s expected.’

‘I’ll be at my studio in the morning but I’ll be back later. See you tomorrow then,’ Harriet said, her mouth forming a silent
kiss, before she hurried out to meet her husband.

As Neil gathered up his equipment he had a sneaking feeling that he was about to step into a dangerous situation.

‘So someone nicked Lilith Benley’s book of spells. Very public spirited of them if you ask me.’

Gerry put his feet up on his desk and began to flick through the file on his lap.

‘Probably means someone knows she’s back in circulation,’ Wesley said. ‘I thought her release was supposed to be kept quiet.’
He’d made himself comfortable on the visitor’s chair and was nursing a mug of hot tea in his hands. Gerry had brought in his
own kettle and tea bags because he considered that not having to suffer tea from the vending machine in the corridor outside
to be one of the privileges of rank.

‘There was a lot of bad feeling about those Benley women so I’m surprised the good villagers of West Fretham haven’t been
storming the place with pitchforks and burning torches.’

Wesley grinned. ‘Isn’t West Fretham mostly holiday lets and retired London lawyers these days?’

‘That’ll be why then.’

‘I trust the victims’ families have been told she’s out. They’ve a right to know if anyone has.’

‘No doubt someone will have let them know. As far as I’m aware, Joanne Trelisip’s mother dropped off the radar a while ago.
She was a single mother. I think her husband was some sort of entertainer but he’d walked out when Joanne was young.’

‘What about the other girl?’

‘Gabby Soames. Her folks moved away. Went to live in the North East as far away as possible. They were a nice
family … until Gabby’s murder destroyed them.’ He paused, a distant look in his eyes as if he was reliving unhappy memories.
‘I’ve sent the crime scene people over to the Benley place to see if the burglar left any fingerprints but I’m not inclined
to push the boat out.’

‘I suppose she’s served her time.’ Wesley’s feelings on the matter were mixed.

Gerry snorted. ‘Those girls’ families have had to serve a life sentence so why shouldn’t she? She’d never admit it, you know.
I reckon that makes it worse. She refused to acknowledge what she’d done.’

Wesley hesitated. ‘It’s strange that only something linked to witchcraft was taken. Do you think one of the victims’ relatives
might be responsible for the break-in?’

‘Anything’s possible.’

‘Who was in charge of the Benley case?’

‘DCI Hough. I was his DS.’

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him.’

‘He was nearing retirement and it was his last major inquiry. Poor bloke keeled over with a heart attack soon after the Benleys
were convicted.’ He patted his ample stomach. ‘Let that be a lesson to us all.’ He hauled himself upright in his chair and
craned his neck to see into the outer office. ‘What’s going on?’

Wesley looked round and saw that a uniformed constable was chatting to DC Trish Walton, whose eyes were shining as if she
was in receipt of some juicy gossip. Gerry stood up and strolled out of his office, hands in pockets, trying hard to look casual.
As he approached Trish’s desk the constable straightened his back and began to edge towards the door.

‘Anything new?’ Wesley heard Gerry ask as he bestowed a gap-toothed smile on his underlings.

‘Nothing much, sir. Just another complaint,’ the constable said. He was young and he sounded wary, as though he feared Gerry
was about to live up to his reputation and come out with some witty put-down that would send him back, red-faced, to his own
department.

‘What about?’

‘They’re filming some reality show at a farm out at West Fretham.
Celebrity Farm
, it’s called.’

‘So I’ve heard. What about it?’

‘One of the neighbours put in a complaint about the noise and the traffic. Says he came to the country for some peace and
quiet. It’s the same bloke who complained about the fans who were on his land.’

Wesley emerged from the shelter of Gerry’s office. ‘Fans?’

‘One of the participants was Jackie Piper.’

‘Never heard of her,’ said Gerry.

‘He’s a him. And he got voted off a while ago. Zac James is still there though – he used to be in Ladbeat but he’s a bit past
his sell-by date now so I don’t think he attracts the same following. Fans are fickle,’ said the expert in popular culture.

‘I don’t understand why you’re telling CID. It’s a job for uniform,’ said Gerry. ‘We deal with real crime here.’

‘The farm where the programme’s being filmed is next door to Devil’s Tree Cottage land,’ Trish said meaningfully.

‘I still don’t see …’

‘If any young girls decide to hang around in the hope of seeing any of the celebrities …’

‘Come on, Trish. Lilith Benley’s hardly likely to be a danger now,’ said Wesley.

This silenced the speculation that was bubbling round
the office and everyone returned to their paperwork, looking a little sheepish. Wesley followed Gerry back into his office
and they sat down again.

‘Why did that Benley woman decide to come back to my patch?’ Gerry rolled his eyes to heaven as if his patience was being
sorely tried.

‘Maybe it’s all she’s ever known … apart from prison,’ said Wesley.

‘Oh no. She’d lived in London for years before she came here with her mother. Bought that smallholding in search of the good
life. Only it went bad. Before she came here she used to be some sort of civil servant, if I remember right. She’s a bright
woman so don’t underestimate her, Wes. And now she’s out I think we should keep an eye on her. If she steps out of line I
want to know about it.’

Wesley saw an unexpected glint of budding obsession in Gerry’s eyes. Having known the DCI so long, it surprised him.

The phone on Gerry’s desk rang and he answered it. Wesley watched as his grip tightened on the receiver. From his expression,
Wesley could tell the news was bad. He waited patiently for the call to end.

‘A body’s been found near the Benley Place.’

‘Lilith Benley?’

Gerry didn’t answer.

Wesley called home and left a message. ‘Suspicious death. No idea what time I’ll be in. Sorry.’ Pam could probably recite
those particular words in her sleep. He’d used them so often during the course of their marriage.

It was four-thirty when they arrived at Jessop’s Farm and parked next to the large TV van they’d spotted earlier, the
only obvious sign that the place was being used for the filming of
Celebrity Farm
. A constable stood on guard at the door and as Wesley and Gerry approached he made a valiant effort to look alert and on
top of the situation.

‘What have we got?’ Wesley asked him.

The young man – the sort people are thinking of when they say the police are getting younger – cleared his throat. As far
as Wesley could recall he hadn’t met him before but the constable clearly knew who he was dealing with. Being one of the few
ethnic minority officers in the local force, Wesley was known to most by reputation.

‘They’re filming here, sir.
Celebrity Farm
, it’s called.’

‘So we’ve heard,’ said Gerry. ‘It’s not one of the celebrities, is it? That’d be too much to hope,’ he added, muttering the
words under his breath.

‘No, sir. But one of them found the body. He’s called Rupert Raybourn – used to be some sort of comedian I think. He went
out for a walk during a break in filming and found it in the top field. There were sheep in there but the farmer’s cleared
them out.’

‘So this farmer’s been trampling all over the crime scene?’ said Gerry, impatient.

‘Well, the sheep needed moving so we had no choice. The farmer’s name’s Joe Jessop and he’s staying in one of the farm cottages
while the filming’s going on. He’s already given a statement. And I’ve organised for statements to be taken from everyone
in the house; the film crew and the other celebrity. It’s Zac James from Ladbeat. That was a boy band. They used to be big
about ten years back.’

Everything seemed under control and Wesley told the constable he’d done well. He thought the lad deserved a bit of praise.

‘Has Dr Bowman arrived yet?’

‘It’s not Dr Bowman, it’s Dr Partridge.’

A forlorn expression appeared on Gerry’s face. ‘What’s happened to Dr Bowman?’

Gerry and Colin Bowman were old friends but Wesley knew there was something more behind the anguished question than a yearning
for the familiar.