The Shadow Collector (5 page)

Once Paul had left the room, Wesley walked over to the window to watch the activity outside. The body of the dead
woman was being loaded into the mortuary van and he had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that he was intruding on an intimate
moment so he turned away.

‘What do you think, Wes?’ said Gerry. ‘Are we going to be able to make an early arrest and go home?’

But before Wesley could answer Paul burst into the room. And Wesley could tell from his forlorn expression that he was the
bearer of bad news.

Zac James had gone. And so had his car.

Written by Alison Hadness, September 8th 1643

I learned my letters as a young maid copying from the books of my brothers against my father’s will, and so I write this for
I fear that we are about to be overtaken by terrible events and I wish to set them down. My husband says I should look to
my household duties so I will write this journal in a cipher of my own invention while he is about his work. I pray he does
not learn of my defiance
.

They say Exeter has been taken and now the townsfolk of Tradmouth set up barricades at each entrance to the town in fear of
the King’s army. My husband, William, hath much resentment of the King’s taxes levied upon us and every port in the land.
He fears his ships might be attacked by the forces of our avaricious Sovereign Lord and he says he will do all in his power
to defend us against the enemies of Parliament
.

The churches are made forts with guns set upon the towers to attack any who dare encroach upon our town, and the blacksmith,
Master Penny, hath supplied much iron work to our fortifications
.

Today my stepdaughter, Elizabeth, would not answer when I addressed her on the matter. I think she bears me much ill will.
When I am about my work with my herbs she disturbs me not and I thank God for it for I cannot bear her hatred and her evil
looks
.

William came to my bed last night and I was forced to endure his advances. How I wish it would end
.

Gerry kept asking how the hell it could have happened. The response from the officers meant to be keeping an eye on things
was an embarrassed silence. Everyone had assumed Zac James had permission to leave the scene. It was a misunderstanding, that
was all. Gerry fumed and issued vague threats but in the end they came to nothing.

Now all patrols were on the lookout for Zac James’s blue sports car and Jessop’s Farm was being searched for a weapon or any
bloodstained clothing. However, all the search turned up was a trace of white powder on the polished surface of the dressing
table in Zac James’s room … white powder that turned out to be cocaine.

The farmer, Joe Jessop, had been told to stay put in the run-down farm cottage nearby that had become his temporary home during
the filming. Rupert Raybourn had checked into a hotel in Tradmouth, while the crew had returned to their rented cottage in
the village so they’d be available for further questioning if needed. Gerry had promised that filming could resume in a day
or so. But if one of the participants in
Celebrity Farm
turned out to be a murderer, the show certainly wouldn’t go on.

Once they’d calmed egos and sorted everything out at the farm, there was someone else Wesley and Gerry wanted to see. According
to Dorothy Benley’s statement eighteen years ago, Gabby Soames and Joanne Trelisip had been
stabbed in the stomach, exactly like the woman who’d just died. In view of the similarity, they had to speak to Lilith Benley
again as soon as possible.

Gerry sat quietly in the passenger seat as Wesley drove to Devil’s Tree Cottage for the second time that day. Wesley knew
he was thinking, turning over the possibilities in his mind. Had Lilith killed again? Perhaps she couldn’t help herself. Some
killers – the dangerous ones – couldn’t.

When Lilith answered the door she was holding a wet dishcloth and the faded apron she wore looked as if it might once have
belonged to her mother. She said nothing as she led them through into the kitchen where Wesley saw evidence that she’d been
cleaning the cupboards. The place had been neglected for eighteen years, she explained. It was time she made a start.

‘You’ve heard about what happened next door?’

It was difficult to read her expression as she put down the cloth and sank into a seat by the kitchen table. ‘A couple of
policemen came round earlier to ask me if I’d seen or heard anything suspicious. I hadn’t.’

‘Have you seen a young woman hanging around nearby? Blonde; late twenties. Red coat.’

‘I’ve already said I haven’t seen anyone. Don’t you people communicate?’

‘The woman was stabbed in the stomach. That was how you killed your victims.’ Gerry’s words were almost brutal and Wesley
saw Lilith flinch. ‘According to your mother you used a ceremonial knife – an athame, wasn’t it?’

‘That was taken off for examination at the time – I don’t have it now. Look, I didn’t kill those girls and I certainly didn’t
kill this woman you’re talking about.’ She spoke
calmly, patiently, as though she was explaining something to a rather dim child.

‘So was your mother lying about the girls’ murders?’ said Wesley.

She turned her head away, fingering the thin fabric of her apron. ‘My mother was confused. She couldn’t tell fact from her
delusions.’

‘There was the forensic evidence,’ Wesley continued. ‘And the girls’ bloodstained clothes were found in your out-house.’

Lilith was staring ahead, her hands resting stiffly in her lap. Outwardly calm but Wesley could sense the turmoil inside.
‘You don’t seriously think I killed this woman, do you?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘Why would I kill her? I didn’t even know her. Anyway, I’m out on licence so if I put a foot wrong I’m back inside and that’s
the last thing I want. You’re welcome to search this house if it helps to convince you.’

From the challenge in her voice Wesley knew that any search would prove fruitless. But the cottage was small so it didn’t
take long to go through the motions. They found nothing unusual or incriminating … not even evidence of a recent fire where
evidence could have been destroyed.

When they returned to the kitchen Lilith was still sitting motionless at the table, as though she hadn’t moved in their absence.

‘Find anything?’ she asked.

Gerry didn’t answer the question.

‘By the way, something else is missing after the break-in … apart from my Book of Shadows.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A ceremonial cloak. Black satin. It used to be worn for Wiccan ceremonies. I’ve been clearing things out and I noticed it’s
gone.’

‘You think your burglar took it?’

She shrugged as if she wasn’t sure … and didn’t really care.

‘Do you really think she’s got something to do with it?’ Wesley asked as he followed Gerry out.

The DCI stopped when they reached the car. ‘She comes back here and then someone’s stabbed in a field next door to her land.
I don’t believe in coincidences.’

Somehow Wesley didn’t share his boss’s certainty.

Gerry told Wesley to go home. All patrols were looking for Zac James and Wesley found himself hoping that the singer would
go to ground till morning and then be spotted and detained at some civilised hour.

It was almost ten by the time he reached his house and the children were still up. Amelia had refused to go to bed until her
dad’s return and Pam, after a day’s teaching, hadn’t had the strength to argue. Michael too was in his dressing gown, lolling
on the sofa watching a parade of vacuous celebrities on the TV screen, ignoring his little sister who was dancing around the
room to the beat of the music. At least, Pam said, he’d finished his homework. It was a job getting him to do anything since
he’d started in year six. All that early good behaviour and industrious learning seemed to be vanishing in the looming shadow
of adolescence. He was a bright boy, always top of his class and, after much discussion, his parents had agreed that he should
go to the nearest grammar school. But now Pam worried that he wasn’t working hard enough to pass the entrance exam.

‘I’ll have a fatherly word when I’ve got a minute,’ Wesley said. ‘I’m sure it’s just a phase.’

‘Maybe.’ Pam didn’t look convinced.

They escaped to the kitchen and Pam sat down at the round table. She pushed her shoulder length dark hair back behind her
ears and gave him a weak smile. She’d changed out of the clothes she’d worn all day at school and had put on tight jeans and
a white T-shirt that flattered her slim figure. She looked good. But she looked tired. More than tired, despondent. The cat,
Moriarty, jumped onto her lap and she put the animal back down on the floor again, ignoring its importunate meows. This was
more than just tiredness after spending a day in the classroom and then trying to coax an obdurate child to do his homework.
Something was wrong.

‘What’s the matter?’

She stood up, pushing her chair back so that it scraped loudly on the floor, setting Wesley’s teeth on edge. She walked over
to the worktop where he could see the half-full bottle of red wine they’d abandoned the evening before. She took two glasses
from the cupboard and filled them to the brim. Then she returned to the table with the glasses and slumped back in her seat.

‘I had a call from my mother.’

Wesley had never cared to use that old cliché ‘the mother-in-law from hell’ to describe Della but he had to admit she came
pretty close: thoughtless, disruptive, selfish, occasionally drunk, a teacher at a further education college nearing retirement
who seemed to regard her more immature students as role models. Earlier that year one of her wild enthusiasms had almost resulted
in Pam’s death and that was something neither of them had been able to
forget … or forgive. Pam reasoned that she didn’t want Della, that most irresponsible of grandmothers, to influence their
children’s lives and Wesley tended to agree. On the other hand, Pam was her only daughter so he knew the estrangement was
painful. He found himself torn between an unspoken, nagging sympathy for the woman’s pathetic attempts to retain her fading
youth, and his instinctive desire to protect his children.

‘What did she say?’

Pam took a long sip of wine. ‘She’s come up with some story about one of her colleagues being in deep shit and wanting your
advice. But it’s only an excuse if you ask me. Have you had anything to eat?’

‘I had a takeaway with Gerry in the office.’ He reached over and touched her hand. ‘Do you want me to speak to Della?’

Deep trouble could mean anything … especially when it was the gospel according to Della who always tended to over-dramatise.
On the other hand, he hated loose ends and he couldn’t help feeling curious.

Pam put her glass on the table. ‘I put the phone down on her and I feel a bit bad about it now. She sounded genuinely worried.
She said this bloke was in serious trouble so maybe you should …’

‘No problem,’ Wesley lied. In his experience anything connected with Della was likely to become a problem sooner or later.
With a woman dead and Zac James still on the run, trouble was the last thing he wanted.

But family was family, even family of the estranged and feckless kind. He took out his mobile phone and found Della’s number.

When she answered she sounded grateful that he’d taken
the trouble to call. This seemed like a new Della, chastened and repentant. But he was reserving judgement for the moment.

‘You told Pam somebody’s in trouble. Not you is it?’

‘How can you think that, Wesley?’ A few months ago, before Pam had come face to face with death, she would have countered
with an insult but now she sounded hurt. ‘It’s a man called Simon Frith. He teaches History at my college and he’s been suspended
because someone’s made an accusation against him.’

‘What sort of accusation?’

‘Sexual assault of a fifteen-year-old girl. All nonsense of course.’

‘Is it?’ Della was a gullible woman and he knew from his years in the police service that sexual predators can be remarkably
plausible.

‘Yes. He’s a nice man. He’s got a lovely wife and three kids.’

‘That doesn’t make him innocent.’ She was beginning to irritate him and he knew he was in danger of abandoning his long-held
policy of keeping an open mind until he’d collected all the facts.

‘They picked him up at home a couple of nights ago and took him to Neston police station for questioning – locked him in a
cell. Can you find out what evidence they’ve got?’

‘I’m sure they’re doing a thorough investigation. Is he still being held?’

‘He’s been released on bail. The trouble is, he doesn’t even know why this girl’s accusing him. Can you find out? Please.
His wife’s going out of her mind. It’s the worst thing that can happen … to be accused unjustly like that.’

‘Hang on, Della, all the students where you teach are over sixteen, aren’t they?’

‘He’s been doing some private tutoring and it’s one of those kids who’s made the accusation. The police just kept on and on
at him, asking all these questions. What happened when he was alone with her? Did he fancy young girls? They even took his
computer away. Please, Wesley. I promised him you’d help.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that. I can’t interfere in someone else’s case. They’ll have taken his computer to look for evidence
… e-mails, websites he’s visited, whether he’s into porn featuring young girls …’

‘I know that, Wesley. I’m not stupid. What I want to know is what you’re going to do about it. We need to act now to avoid
a terrible miscarriage of justice.’ This was Della at her most unstoppable – her most pompous – and he felt a fresh stab of
irritation. He had a killer to catch … a killer who’d thrust a knife into a young woman’s stomach and watched her die like
a sacrificial animal in a cold field. He hadn’t time to take part in one of Della’s crusades for justice, especially if it
involved coming to the defence of a child molester.

‘There’s nothing much I can do. Like I said, there’ll be a thorough investigation and if there’s no evidence against him …’

‘But this little minx who’s accusing him will be believed,’ she whined. ‘They always are.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he said, uncomfortably aware that she might have a point. It’s hard to prove a negative if your accuser
appears to be a paragon of blameless innocence. ‘I’m in the middle of a murder enquiry at the moment but if I have a moment
I’ll try to have a word with someone at
Neston … just to find out what’s going on. No promises, mind.’