The Shining Skull (12 page)

Two of Rachel’s colleagues had already gone to the car park by the beach to keep watch: Trish Walton and Steve Carstairs had
been chosen because it was assumed that a man and a woman at that place and at that time would be taken for a courting – or
more likely adulterous – couple and would excite little curiosity. Rachel wondered how Trish felt about this subterfuge –
she’d already sampled Steve’s dubious charms once and vowed never again. But sometimes you have to take the rough with the
smooth in the modern police service.

Rachel wasn’t comfortable with the idea of Suzy travelling to Whitepool Sands by car alone, but those were the instructions
and they didn’t dare to disobey them when a life was at risk. But Rachel was concerned for the safety of a woman too distressed
to think straight, even though an unmarked police car would be waiting for her in a lay-by on the road from Neston to Tradmouth
and would follow at a discreet distance until she came to Whitepool Sands car park. There the surveillance would be handed
over to
Steve and Trish. The car, driven by DC Paul Johnson, would wait further along the road and, at Trish’s signal, would follow
Suzy wherever she was instructed to go.

The scheme was laid. But Robert Burns’s wise words about the best laid schemes, echoed in Rachel’s head as she wished Suzy
luck and watched her walk out of the front door.

The Barber ran his finger across the shining steel blade and withdrew it quickly. The scissors were sharp. Razor sharp. Such
a blade could cut through most things. Hair. Flesh.

He had been on the Internet again and found that the reply had come. Encouraging . . . urging him on. This was something he
had to do.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror and pulled the baseball cap down. He had decided to be clean shaven today and he thought
with satisfaction that he looked so nondescript, so ordinary. And that’s exactly how he wanted to look. The local paper had
been issuing warnings to women to be on their guard. But many people took no notice of prophets of doom. It could never happen
to them.

He had parked in one of Neston’s side streets, just around the corner from Weston Place. From listening to the taxi frequencies
on his radio he knew that she called for a taxi most Friday nights . . . Ms Wetherby. He had watched her walk out to the cab
and he had watched her slip into the back seat, her short skirt showing a long length of pale thigh. She always called the
same firm . . . Neston Cabs. And he had the car prepared. Ready.

He strained to listen to the radio, to hear the call he knew would come. It was perfect. It was meant to be.

Then he heard the voice of the woman in Neston Cabs’ control room. ‘Anyone free to pick up a fare from Weston Place? Lady
by the name of Wetherby. Going to Morbay.’

Then came an answering male voice, gruff, uninterested. ‘OK Dawn. I’m just dropping a fare off in Tradmouth. It’ll be fifteen
minutes.’

‘Thanks Les. I’ll tell her. It’s number five Weston Place.’

The Barber put the scissors and the parcel tape in the glove compartment before starting the engine and letting the handbrake
off.

Ms Wetherby’s taxi would be early for once.

* * *

At least the moon was full and Suzy could see where she was going. She parked the SUV, as instructed, just by the path leading
down to the beach.

It all seemed vaguely familiar and then she remembered that she’d been there before a long time ago when Leah had been small.
They’d come down to Devon on holiday in those far-off, lean days before Brad had spotted her daughter’s talent. Then they’d
left their small semi in Croydon and stayed for a week in a caravan park on the outskirts of Morbay. It had been a different
life back then for her and Darren. A life of loans; of scrimping and saving and worrying. But now they had wealth, the worries
seemed greater. Suzy Wakefield had always assumed that money bought happiness. Now she knew it didn’t. In the poor times,
Leah had never been in danger. In those days nobody had ever threatened to cut her daughter’s throat.

She could hear the waves crashing, louder and louder as she walked down the sandy path to the beach. The tide was high and
the moon sprayed the sea with shifting flecks of light. She reached the coarse sand and stopped. She could feel her heart
leaping against her ribs as she looked round. Whitepool Sands was backed by trees, giving it a Mediterranean feel when the
sun shone. The kidnapper could be anywhere, watching her. Making sure she obeyed the instructions to the letter.

Suzy took a deep breath and forced herself to move. She carried the waterproof bag she’d found, the one Leah had used to use
to put her swimming things in when she was young. And she’d parcelled the money up into self-seal freezer bags inside it just
to be sure.

The flashy black Ford Probe had been parked at the far end of the car park, the couple inside apparently kissing, engrossed
in each other, and Suzy wondered whether it was her back-up or just some random courting couple. She hadn’t been aware of
an unmarked police car following her there, but then she hadn’t really been aware of much apart from the pounding of her heart
and the feeling of dread in her stomach.

She walked forward, her feet sinking into the damp sand. Three steps. Four steps. The café loomed on her left, a small, white
one storey building, little more than a glorified hut. In the summer they sold ice creams, buckets and spades and brightly
coloured flags to fly from the battlements of a thousand sand castles. But now it was
locked up and deserted. She looked beyond the café to the small blue dinghy, which lay upside down on the concrete in front
of the building, just to the right of the door and well out of the tide’s hungry grasp.

She squatted down beside it, unsure what to do. It looked heavy but as she tried to lift it, she was surprised to find that
it was fairly light. Fibreglass rather than wood. Her hand crept underneath and touched the damp sandy concrete. The relentless
noise of the waves seemed deafening now, the vastness of the sea mocking her helplessness.

Then she felt a plastic bag, cold and pliant to the touch. She pulled it out from its hiding place and realised that she’d
forgotten to bring a torch with her. She could see an envelope inside, the same as the other; a type available in any stationer’s
or supermarket. Self-sealing so no tell-tale trace of DNA could trap whoever had Leah in their power. She stood there for
a few moments, taking deep breaths. She had to keep calm . . . for Leah’s sake. For her little girl.

She began to run back to the car, the soft sand slowing her steps. She had to read the note. She had to know what to do next.

She unlocked her car door and climbed into the driver’s seat, flicking on the light above the mirror. She sat there, breathless,
reading the words neatly printed in black ballpoint pen on the sheet of pale yellow paper.

‘Drive to Derenham and leave your car in the car park near the waterfront. At the jetty turn right and walk along the shore
for three hundred yards. You’ll see a rowing boat called
The Spider’s Web
pulled up on the shore by some old lime kilns. Put the money and both notes inside the boat and walk back. Then drive straight
home. You will be watched and Leah will die unless you do exactly as you’re told.’

Suzy felt warm tears streaming down her face. How on earth was she going to walk along the deserted shore in the dark?

She sat there, crying for five minutes as Trish and Steve watched helplessly.

When Suzy started the car, Steve lunged at Trish with more enthusiasm than she was comfortable with. He had said they had
to make it convincing but she wasn’t so sure. Their simulated clinch hid the fact that Trish was talking into her mobile phone
to Paul Johnson, stationed near by.

Their target was on her way out. And for God’s sake don’t lose her.

Wesley Peterson had parked his car some way away from the Wakefields’ house and walked the rest of the way. But he doubted
whether this subterfuge was necessary. The kidnapper’s attention would surely be focused on Suzy, unless he had an accomplice
who was watching the house even now. It wasn’t wise to take chances.

Rachel’s borrowed car had been moved out of sight round the back of the house to fit in with her cover story. Cleaners aren’t
usually invited to stay the night. Wesley had called her to ask for the battery of security lights to be switched off as he
made his approach and, as a result, he had to stumble his way round to the back door in the dark.

Once he was inside the house he coughed as the sudden wall of cigarette smoke hit the back of his throat. Rachel led him to
the lounge and introduced him to Darren Wakefield who shook his hand absentmindedly. Brad Williams, lounging on the white
sofa, gave him a worried nod and went back to examining his fingernails.

‘Everything’s going to plan so far,’ Wesley announced, trying to sound positive. ‘Your wife picked up her instructions at
Whitepool Sands and she’s driving towards Tradmouth. We’ve got someone tailing her in an unmarked car and . . . ’ He gave
Rachel a shy smile. ‘Rachel here placed a tracking device on her car so there’s no chance of losing her. She doesn’t know
it’s there. We thought it was best.’

He was glad to see that Darren Wakefield looked relieved.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I was worried that there was going to be a cockup. Just make sure there isn’t, eh?’

‘We’ll do everything we can, Mr Wakefield,’ said Rachel softly as Wesley’s phone began to ring.

After a brief conversation Wesley took a deep breath. ‘Paul’s followed Mrs Wakefield to Derenham. She left the car in the
car park by the waterfront. He parked on the street and followed her as far as the Ship Inn. He says she walked to the jetty
and then she took the path along the shore.’

Darren looked worried. ‘All those trees . . . He could be hiding in the trees watching.’

‘That’s why Paul couldn’t risk following her . . . but he’s called the river patrol.’

Brad Williams stood up. ‘No,’ he shouted with unexpected violence. ‘If he’s watching and sees a police launch on the river,
he’ll know the cops are involved and he’ll kill Leah.’

Wesley smiled bravely. ‘They’ll use an unmarked launch. Don’t worry. We’re not going to take any risks.’ He tried his best
to sound confident. Someone had to. But the more he thought of this new development, the more he feared that Suzy’s impromptu
walk along the lonely, tree-lined river bank held all sorts of possibilities for disaster.

But there was nothing for it but to wait.

Chantelle Wetherby sat in the back of the minicab, studying her reflection in her make up mirror. With a job like hers – hostess
at Morbay’s premier casino – she had to look her best. She took her lipstick out of her bag and pouted, ready to execute some
essential running repairs.

Once she was satisfied with the overall effect, she spared a glance for her driver. This one was quiet. They usually chatted
you up . . . or at least chatted about something even if it was only the weather. New ones usually asked if she was going
on a night out and she had to put them right.

Chantelle didn’t know about the Barber because she never watched the TV news or read a newspaper. Her casino colleagues’ main
topic of conversation was the activities and relative wealth of their reptilian punters and who was screwing who in the claustrophobic
world of South Devon’s foremost gaming establishment: they were hardly the type to swap local news over a cup of tea so the
subject of the Barber had never cropped up.

Consequently, Chantelle sat in the back of the cab, oblivious to the possibility of danger, preoccupied with her own thoughts
and her own concerns, the chief of which was how to avoid landing up alone with the new boss in his office and being screwed
on top of his desk like her colleague, Gigi. He was fat and he looked like an overfed penguin in his cheap tuxedo. He also
smelled of sweat and cheap aftershave that had fallen off the back of some lorry or other. He was a creep and there was no
way she was going to let his hands wander over her body, thank you very much.

Having worked herself up into a state of indignation at the
thought of this imagined dangerous liaison, Chantelle hardly noticed that the cab had turned off the main road to Morbay
and down a country lane. Instead she took out her mirror again and began to adjust her platinum curls.

Paul Johnson had reported that Suzy had returned safely to the centre of Derenham. Unfortunately the river patrol boat hadn’t
spotted her on the river bank and where she’d left the money was still a mystery. Paul had asked Wesley whether he should
speak to Suzy when she returned to her car but Wesley had advised against it. If the kidnapper or his accomplice had been
watching her, it was best to lie low. They’d discover all the details when she returned to the house. They had to play this
carefully until Leah was back home safe and well.

Darren Wakefield was watching from the window for his ex-wife’s return. Wesley hadn’t liked to break the news that they had
no idea where the money had been left. It was probably best if the police didn’t appear too incompetent. When the headlights
of Suzy’s SUV came into sight, cutting through the darkness, Darren ran to the front door, followed by Rachel.

Suzy collapsed into an armchair. She looked pale and shaken and it took a few minutes and a large vodka and coke before she
was able to give a coherent account of what had happened once she was out of Paul Johnson’s sight. ‘I don’t know how I managed
that bloody walk. It was pitch dark and I kept tripping over tree roots and rocks . . . and those bloody trees. I’m sure I
was being watched. I was bloody shaking,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘But they say you can find the strength, don’t they?
When your child’s in danger.’

The isolated river bank had been a clever touch, Wesley thought to himself. A lot of planning had gone into ensuring that
the kidnapper would know if the police were following Suzy. He hoped that none of the officers involved in the ultra-discreet
surveillance had done anything to arouse his suspicions.