The Shining Skull (15 page)

‘I should have thought the kidnapper would have contacted them by now,’ she said as she stood up to leave.’ She hesitated,
looking Gerry Heffernan in the eye. ‘He’s not going to let the girl go is he, sir?’

Heffernan didn’t reply. He stared into his beer as though expecting to read the future in the disappearing froth on top of
the golden liquid.

‘We’ll just have to hope for the best,’ said Wesley, giving her a weak smile.

‘You do realise that this is exactly what happened when Marcus Fallbrook was kidnapped, don’t you.’ Gerry Heffernan spoke
quietly, as though he was afraid of tempting fate. ‘The parents dropped off the ransom then they heard nothing. Not a word
. . . ever again.’

For a few moments nobody spoke. Then Rachel touched Wesley’s shoulder lightly. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, her face deadly
serious. She hurried out of the pub, leaving the two men sitting in funereal silence. They both had a gut feeling that this
thing wouldn’t end well. But they hoped they were wrong.

As soon as Heffernan had taken his last, comforting gulp of beer, Wesley stood up.

‘Let’s go to the Fallbrook house and have a word with Mark Jones.’

‘Mirabilis.’

‘What?’

‘Mirabilis. That’s the name of the house.’

‘Odd name that.’

‘Optimistic certainly.’ Wesley began to walk out of the pub, nodding to the barman as he passed. Heffernan followed, lumbering
out into the damp air after his colleague.

Mirabilis wasn’t far. Just up the steep incline that was Derenham’s main village street, turn right by the church at the top
of the hill and down a lane. Gerry Heffernan was puffing a bit by the time they got there but Wesley assured him that the
walk would do him good.

When they reached Mirabilis, Wesley rang the doorbell and
waited. The rambling house, covered in Virginia Creeper, had been built, Wesley guessed, in the early part of the twentieth
century. He wondered how it had acquired its name. Mirabilis. Wonderful. Perhaps something good had happened there once.

The door was opened by Carol Fallbrook, Adrian Fallbrook’s wife and, if Mark Jones was telling the truth, Marcus Fallbrook’s
sister-in-law. She had the strained look of one who is being put upon by unwelcome guests but is too polite to do anything
about it. Mark was there, she said as she stood aside to let them in. Wesley knew by the way she said those three words that
she wasn’t altogether happy about the situation.

They found Mark Jones and Adrian Fallbrook sitting facing each other like a pair of bookends on two parallel sofas near a
fireplace filled with a display of yellow lilies, it being too early in the year for a roaring fire. Both men had the satisfied
look of those who had just dined well and they both stood up as the two policemen entered the room. Wesley noticed Adrian
glance at Mark with something approaching brotherly affection. The policeman in him hoped that he wasn’t in for a disappointment.

Adrian invited the two policemen to sit, a small smile on his lips that hinted at a secret of some sort.

‘I don’t know whether you’re aware that we took a DNA test a few days ago,’ Adrian began. ‘We’ve used a private company I
found through the Internet which promised quick results. Neither of us wanted there to be any doubt.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Wesley.

‘Look,’ said Adrian. ‘Will this take long? Marcus and I are taking the boat out this afternoon and . . . ’

‘Don’t worry, sir. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. We’d like to talk to Mr Jones alone if we may.’

Adrian hesitated for a moment, looking at Mark as though seeking his approval. When Mark showed no sign that he was bothered
one way or the other, Adrian muttered ‘Of course’ and hurried from the room.

‘Anything you have to say to me, you could have said in front of Adrian, you know,’ Mark Jones said with a hint of pique.

Wesley caught Gerry Heffernan’s eye. It was time to come to the point. If the kidnapping of Marcus Fallbrook and Leah Wakefield
were indeed linked – if Mark Jones was who he claimed to be – he was their best chance of identifying the
kidnappers. They knew it was a big ‘if’ but it was worth a try. Anything was.

It was Heffernan who spoke first. ‘We won’t beat about the bush, Mr Jones. We need you to tell us everything you remember
about the person who abducted you . . . Anything, however small, would be useful.’

Mark Jones looked at the chief inspector curiously. ‘You make it sound as if it’s urgent.’

‘We think your abduction might be linked to a recent crime. It’s vital that you tell us everything you know, however trivial
it may seem.’

Mark Jones thought about this for a few long moments. ‘What recent crime?’ he asked eventually. ‘Not another kidnapping?’

‘I’m afraid we can’t go into detail at the moment,’ said Wesley, evading the direct question with the skill of a politician.
‘But we wouldn’t be asking you if it wasn’t important.’

Jones issued a long sigh. ‘I’d like to help but the truth is, like I told you before, I don’t remember very much about the
time between when I lived here and when I was in Ireland with the travellers.’

Wesley suddenly remembered something he’d promised to do. ‘Anna Fallbrook . . . your mother . . . she had a close friend called
Linda Tranter. I’ve talked to Mrs Tranter and she’d like to meet you.’

It was hard to gauge the man’s reaction to the suggestion: his face was a neutral mask, showing neither apprehension or enthusiasm.
But then, Wesley supposed, the prospect of meeting an old friend of your mother’s would hardly be something that would fill
most men with unbridled delight.

‘Yeah. Why not?’ he said after a few moments. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get used to having family and friends I don’t know from
Adam, won’t I?’

Wesley smiled. ‘I suppose you will. Look, have you remembered anything more, anything at all? You said it was starting to
come back and we just wondered . . . ’

Jones shut his eyes. ‘It’s just snatches. Like I see something and then it’s gone.’ He buried his face in his hands. Then
after a few moments he looked up. ‘Remember I told you about Jenny with the blue Mini?’

‘What about her?’Heffernan asked, trying to hide his impatience.

‘I remember something about Jenny being there. But . . . ’

‘But what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Try, please,’ said Wesley, willing him to remember. ‘Just think of what happened that day. You disappeared from school at
lunchtime. Did Jenny meet you? Did she take you somewhere?’

Mark shook his head but he didn’t look too sure.

‘Or was there someone else? Did you go off with someone else?’

Mark looked Wesley in the eye. ‘I dunno. I think Jenny was there but . . . ’

Wesley waited patiently for him to continue.

‘It’s all hazy . . . but I think someone else was with her. I dunno.’

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Who else was there? Was it a man or a woman?’

Mark shook his head. Wesley sensed that he was becoming agitated, as though he was starting to relive memories that were painful
but elusive. ‘I don’t remember any more. I wish I did.’ His voice was unsteady and his eyes were glazed with unshed tears.

Wesley handed the man his card. ‘If you do recall anything – anything at all – will you ring me?’

Mark Jones nodded. ‘Yeah. I’m trying to remember. Believe me, I’m trying.’

Wesley and Heffernan made for the door. When they were on the threshold, Wesley turned. ‘Does the name Gordon Heather mean
anything to you?’

Jones frowned, as though the name was familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. ‘Who is he?’

‘He was Jenny Booker’s boyfriend.’

Jones looked up, his eyes pleading. ‘I dunno, I . . . Did he have something to do with it? Is that who you think took me away?’

‘That’s what we’d like you to tell us,’ said Wesley.

‘Have you found Jenny? Have you spoken to her? You should ask her what happened.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Jones, but Jenny’s dead. She died not long after the abduction.’

Mark Jones couldn’t have faked the shock, the devastation, that passed across his face as Wesley delivered the news. It was
as if his last hope had gone.

Wesley said goodbye and left the man staring helplessly after them, his arms held limply by his side.

Jenny Booker was dead. She had drowned and it was possible that she had killed herself, perhaps out of guilt that she hadn’t
taken better care of her young charge. Or perhaps she’d felt guilty because she’d unwittingly led the kidnapper to his innocent
victim. Jenny had been seeing Gordon Heather and, as far as they knew, Gordon Heather was still alive.

Had he got close to the young nanny in order to have access to Marcus? If they found him, they could ask him.

He was still out there somewhere.

Leah Wakefield could hear the water lapping outside. She had tried her best to escape the rough ropes that bound her wrists
and ankles but the effort had chafed her delicate skin until it was sore and bleeding. The only relief was when her captor
came to feed her and unbind her feet so that she could be led to the toilet.

Soon her captor would come with food – a sandwich, ham probably – which he would hold while she ate. Or was it a he? Maybe
it was a she, the figure in black wearing a ski mask who never spoke. He had brought her a banana last time. And water. When
hunger gnawed at her stomach like a voracious animal, she was grateful for anything to end the pain.

She wondered what day it was. She guessed she’d been there three nights. She’d listened to the sounds outside her windowless
prison and concluded that the quiet time when the busy river traffic fell silent and only the hooting of owls and the determined
chugging of night-time fishing boats making for the open sea, punctuated the silence. She was near the water, she knew that
much. In a place with splintering floorboards and the tide lapping not far away. A boat house perhaps. But wherever it was,
nobody but her captor came there. A fine and private place . . . like the grave.

It was still daytime, she could tell. But it was quieter than it had been a while ago. Perhaps it was tea time outside in
the real world. In the world she could glimpse through sound but from which she remained separated by a barrier as strong
as death itself. She had tried to call out, to scream but it had become clear quite early on that there was nobody there to
hear. Sometimes she sang to keep her spirits up. Songs she had recorded, her latest record. Then, more comfortingly, songs
from her childhood; cheap pop songs she’d sung along with while she was growing up and sometimes
even nursery rhymes that returned her to a time when everything was innocent and uncomplicated.

Her ears were attuned to the slightest sound and as soon as she heard the metallic click of the outer door being unlocked,
she froze. He was coming. She longed for him to be there because his presence meant food and physical comfort. But at the
same time she dreaded his arrival because she didn’t know what the visit would bring. Perhaps one day he’d turn up and kill
her. She couldn’t be sure.

She began to call out. ‘Please, please . . . help me. Let me go, please. I won’t tell anyone. Please.’ She knew she sounded
like a whining child but she didn’t know what other role to play.

She heard the door open, the scraping of wood on wood as the swollen door caught against its frame. He was in the room, standing
there in the darkness. She could feel his eyes piercing her flesh. But she sensed no desire there and again she wondered whether
she was mistaken in thinking of her captor as a ‘he’. Perhaps it was a woman. It was possible. He – or she – had never spoken.

She heard the footsteps approaching, hollow on the bare, dusty boards. ‘Please let me go,’ she whined. ‘I won’t say anything.
I promise. I need the loo. Please. And I’m hungry. Please.’

When the hand touched her hair, she jumped as though she had received an electric shock. She felt her hair being stroked,
gently, almost sensuously. Then a sudden pain as a strand was wound around the caressing hand before being pulled out violently
by the roots.

Leah began to cry in helpless fury as her captor untied her ankles and pulled her to her feet.

Letter from Juanita Bentham to Mrs Sarah Jewel of Brighton, 7th August 1815

My Dearest Mrs Jewel,

I thank you most heartily for your letter and your kind suggestion that I accompany you to Bath. I regret, however, that I
must decline your most generous offer for the happiest of reasons. For I am with child and Sir John shares this, my deepest
delight. He is most solicitous towards me, forbidding me all but the mildest exercise. I miss my walks in this beauteous countryside
but I must not be careless of the Lord’s blessing.

How very strange that you should have come upon the Amazing Devon Marvel. The boy’s sister, Annie, is a maidservant here in
our house and his eldest brother, Joseph, a carpenter on the estate. There are many children in the family and until the boy’s
talents were discovered, they lived in some poverty. Our Rector, Mr Boden, speaks most eloquently of the boy’s brilliance
and the avarice of his father who exploits him in such a manner. The brother, our carpenter, Joseph, is much like the father,
I think: I have heard that he pours scorn on his younger brother’s gifts, saying that such cleverness is of no use to the
son of a labourer, although I suspect there might be bitter envy in his words.

You ask about my sister-in-law, Elizabeth and her unfortunate connection with the woman, Joan Shiner. It is a source of grave
concern to me and she speaks most wildly on occasions, urging me to accompany her to meetings held at the Bentham Arms, an
inn in the village which, although respectable, is hardly a suitable place for a lady of Elizabeth’s station to be seen alone.
She tells
me that this Joan Shiner is with child and that the babe will be born in the same month as my own little one. It is all most
strange.

Your most loving friend, Juanita Bentham

Saturday night was normally the busiest night of the week for taxi drivers. But one cab lay hidden from the world in a lock
up garage in Morbay.

The Barber sprawled across the back seat with a scrubbing brush in his trembling hand. A bucket of soapy water sat on the
garage floor and each time he returned to it to clean his brush the water turned a deeper shade of rusty red. He could smell
the metallic scent of blood and he was afraid.

Last time it had gone too far. The game had changed. It had become more dangerous.

He thought of the woman in her skimpy clothes, displaying her flesh for all to see. Then the blood had run in scarlet rivulets
down the bare flesh and he knew he had stepped over the line. She had been hurt. Thinking about it gave him a disturbing blend
of revulsion and excitement and he wondered how he would find the courage to do it again. And to go even further.

Perhaps he should have finished it there and then. But the thing that controlled him wouldn’t let him go. He had to carry
on – start the cycle all over again until his task was fulfilled.

As he scrubbed at the carpet, he contemplated ringing the hospital to make sure she the woman was all right. But some inner
sense told him that would be foolish. If they traced the call they might catch up with him and lock him up again.

And going back to that place was the last thing he wanted.

On Sunday morning Suzy Wakefield awoke, blinking, from her deep drugged sleep. She could hear the bells of Derenham church
ringing in the distance as she looked around her white and gold bedroom, her fingers touching the smoothness of the satin
counterpane. Her clothes lay, discarded, on the cream shag pile carpet. It hadn’t been a bad dream. It was real. Leah had
been kidnapped and was still out there somewhere with someone who would cut her delicate throat without a second thought.

She closed her eyes and slithered down beneath the bedclothes. Anxiety had brought on a kind of heavy inertia. Even getting
dressed and putting food into her mouth was too much trouble.

She knew the police were still there, squatting in the living room with their recording equipment at the ready. Just in case.
Suzy hardly dared to hope that he’d ring again. Perhaps her Leah was already dead and that’s why she hadn’t been returned.
She curled up into a foetal ball, eyes tight shut in the dark beneath the duvet. If only she knew one way or the other, she
could face it. Or maybe not. At least this way she still had a thread of hope to cling to.

The sharp sound of the telephone ringing made her jump. She uncurled herself and was about to pick up the extension by the
bed when she remembered the orders. She was to wait until the police had set the tape running and set the call-tracing procedure
in motion before answering. She leapt from her bed, not caring that her night dress was crumpled and her hair wild, and hurtled
down the staircase towards the lounge.

When she reached the open door she saw the policewoman, Rachel Tracey, nod to Darren. She had wanted to be the one to take
the call but something told her it wouldn’t be wise to snatch the receiver from her estranged husband’s hand. She stood in
the doorway, hardly daring to breathe, watching and listening as the tape began to turn.

Darren cleared his throat before he spoke. He looked terrified.

‘Hello.’ His voice cracked with nerves.

‘If you want to see Leah again, drive to Stokeworthy. Behind the church, up against the wall is the grave of a Thomas Birkenshaw.
Your instructions are in the gap between the gravestone and the wall.’ The voice was metallic as before, like some sort of
malevolent robot.

Rachel signalled for Darren to keep talking. The longer he talked the more chance they had of tracing the call.

‘Hang on, I’m writing that down. Behind the church. Is that the opposite side to the porch?’

‘Yes. The grave of Thomas Birkenshaw.’

‘What if there’s someone in the churchyard?’

‘Don’t ask stupid questions.’ The voice sounded impatient, almost as if he was starting to realise what Darren was up to.

‘How do I know Leah’s still alive.’

There was a moment of hesitation before the answer came. ‘You’ll have proof when you collect your instructions.’

‘We paid what you asked. Why haven’t you let her go?’

Another pause. ‘You must collect the instructions,’ said the inhuman, metallic voice.

Then the line went dead.

Rachel Tracey picked up her mobile phone and pressed the buttons that would connect her with Tim. He answered almost immediately
and after a short conversation, she looked up at Darren. Suzy had come into the room and was staring at Rachel with wild eyes.
Rachel thought she looked like a mad woman, the type that was locked in attics in Victorian novels.

‘The call’s been traced to a phone box in Neston. A couple of plain-clothes officers are on their way there now.’

‘But he’ll get away again.’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Rachel soothingly, knowing in her heart of hearts that Darren Wakefield was right. There was no
way the kidnapper would hang around a call box, waiting for the police to arrive. On the other hand, there was no indication
that he knew they’d been called in so there might be a tiny flicker of hope. But she wasn’t holding her breath.

‘So what do we do?’ Darren looked at Rachel desperately, like a child in a hostile crowd clinging tight onto the hand of the
only familiar adult.

‘You’ll have to do as he says.’ She looked into his pleading eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

Suzy began to cry. ‘Why don’t you lot do something?’ She almost spat the words at Rachel.

‘Maybe this is the break we need. Maybe he’s about to make a mistake,’ Rachel said with more confidence than she felt inside.
‘Where’s Mr Williams, by the way?’

Darren and Suzy looked at each other.

‘He went back to London late last night,’ said Darren. ‘I thought I’d told you.’

‘No problem,’ said Rachel as she picked up her mobile again. Gerry Heffernan would want to be told of this new development.

Leah Wakefield could hear church bells in the far distance. Sunday morning. At least it gave her some idea of how much time
had passed. Her captor had called in first thing that morning to feed her and untie her legs so that she could be guided to
the filthy makeshift toilet that stank like nothing she had smelled before – but then she had led a sheltered life.

She realised now that his – or her – visits were regular, predictable. And this meant that he was unlikely to turn up in between
times. Her head still hurt after the assault on her hair last night and she had found it hard to get to sleep on the damp
smelling mattress that served as her bed. She had no idea how much hair he’d managed to pull out: it had felt like a lot and
she imagined that it had left a bald patch in the right side of her head. She had cried herself to sleep, soaking her face
with warm salty tears.

It would be hours before he returned. If she could just loosen the tape around her hands . . .

She began to wriggle and, after what seemed like hours, her heart leapt as she felt the tape around her wrists give slightly
with her efforts. She carried on. Nothing in her upbringing and recent life had prepared her for this but she was aware that
she was tapping some mysterious hidden resources she hadn’t known she possessed. She rocked to and fro rhythmically, singing
to herself, not one of her hit songs but a nursery rhyme: see saw Marjorie Daw, Johnny shall have a new master . . . . Over
and over again she sung the words, rocking loosening her bonds.

Until at last her hands were free and she scented liberty.

Gerry Heffernan wasn’t pleased. Singing, he explained to Wesley as they drove to Stokeworthy church, was good for the body
and the spirit and was one of the few ways he managed to relax. He looked forward to his stint in the church choir of St Margaret’s
church in the centre of Tradmouth every Sunday. And today’s anthem was a particular favourite.

Wesley said nothing. He would have liked a lie-in, a lazy Sunday with Pam and the kids. Even a mundane chore like washing
the car seemed attractive at that moment.

Heffernan interrupted his thoughts. ‘I was supposed to be going to the cinema last night with Joyce but we never made it.
Her mum again. She decided to wander off and she had all the neighbours out looking for her. Found her heading for the main
road in her nightie.’

‘Has Joyce decided about . . .?’

‘I don’t think she’s got much choice, Wes. She can’t cope with all that on her own and the vacancy at Sedan House is still
available.’

Wesley made sympathetic noises but he knew they had to
concentrate on the more immediate problem of getting Leah Wakefield back to the bosom of her family. A matter of life and
death.

Rachel had relayed the kidnapper’s message. The next instructions were to be found behind a gravestone in Stokeworthy churchyard.
It seemed their man liked variety – gibbets, beaches, boats and churchyards. Wesley had a nasty suspicion that he was playing
games with them.

Both men realised that the message was timed so that they would turn up when the church’s congregation was arriving for morning
service. They wondered whether this was deliberate or accidental. Perhaps the kidnapper wanted people around. Perhaps it was
easier for him to observe Suzy and Darren as they went to pick up the instructions if he could mingle with a crowd – easier
to make sure there were no police around. They were going to have to be careful not to give themselves away and put Leah in
danger.

When they arrived in Stokeworthy, Wesley parked the car behind a row of others in the lane near the church. According to Rachel,
the Wakefields had only just left the house in Suzy’s silver Merc. If they made their move now, they would be one step ahead
of them. Waiting.

Gerry Heffernan led the way to the church porch, hurrying as if they were late for the service. Wesley walked beside him wondering
whether they would fool anyone who was on the lookout for undercover police officers. But they had to try.

As they reached the open church door, a helpful church warden smiled a greeting and held out a hymn book. Gerry Heffernan
gave him an apologetic shrug. ‘Sorry, mate. Not today, thanks.’ The man looked a little puzzled and resumed his seat just
inside the door, leaving the two newcomers standing in the porch.

‘Perhaps we should have gone in,’ Heffernan whispered after a few moments of awkward feet shuffling. ‘We’re a bit conspicuous
out here.’

Wesley touched his arm. ‘You’re right. Let’s make for the pub next door. We’ll be able to see the back of the church from
the car park.’

The sound of singing began to drift from the church as the two men strolled casually down the church path. There was nobody
about who looked out of place. Just a couple of children in the
lane, circling aimlessly on shiny bikes and a man coming out of the village store opposite the church with a plump Sunday
paper tucked underneath his arm. A picture of lazy Sunday normality: he only wished he could be part of it.

As they walked towards the low, white pub which stood next to the church, the silver Mercedes SUV came into view, driving
slowly towards them. It came to a halt behind a row of cars and Darren and Suzy Wakefield got out and hurried up the church
path. Suzy hugged a large cardigan round her body, as though for protection. Darren’s face looked pale and strained, almost
old.

The Wakefields marched straight round to the back of the building as Wesley and Gerry took up their post in the pub car park.
The wall between pub and churchyard, between the sacred and the secular, was just over five feet high: perfect for observation.
They stood quite still and watched as Leah’s parents made straight for their goal; the row of eighteenth-century gravestones
standing against the south wall of the church. They began a frantic search, plunging their hands into the gap between the
memorials and the rough church wall and after a minute or so Darren pulled something out; a brown padded envelope.

The two policemen looked around and, as far as they could see, nobody was watching from the trees and bushes surrounding the
churchyard. But they weren’t taking any chances. The Wakefields were hurrying back to the car, tearing at the envelope.