The Shining Skull (16 page)

By agreement Wesley stayed in the car park for a while to see if there was any sign of the kidnapper while Gerry Heffernan
strolled towards the Wakefields and when he met them by the church gate, he bent down and pretended to tie his shoelace. He
hissed at them to follow him to the car and began to walk away while Wesley made his way out of the car park, alert for anyone
or anything out of place. If the kidnapper had been there, watching, one of them would have seen him. As it was, they saw
nothing suspicious as the sound of singing once more drifted out of the church and over the sleeping dead.

When they reached the car, all the time looking about them, Darren and Suzy slid into the back seat. Gerry Heffernan had taken
the envelope from them and they were gazing at it desperately.

‘Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff,’ said Wesley. ‘But we had to make sure you weren’t being watched.’

Gerry Heffernan had put on a pair of plastic gloves and was opening the package carefully. After a few seconds he pulled out
a cheap white self-seal envelope and Wesley’s heart sank. More instructions or demands. This wasn’t looking good.

There was something else in the padded envelope too. Heffernan pulled out a clear plastic bag containing a hank of hair –
bright blond – with the roots still attached.

Suzy Wakefield stifled a scream and began to sob hysterically while Darren clenched his fist. ‘I’ll kill the bastard,’ he
muttered. ‘So help me, I’ll kill him.’

‘I think we better see what’s in the envelope,’ said Wesley quietly as he started the car engine.

‘Another glass of wine, Marcus?’ Adrian Fallbrook hovered with the bottle, like an obsequious waiter.

Marcus put his hand over his glass. ‘Ta, but I’d better not. I’m driving.’ He smiled up at his half-brother and their eyes
met.

Adrian turned and saw that Carol was watching them, her lips pressed together tightly in what Adrian knew after several years
of marriage was an expression of disapproval. He wished she’d realise that he’d just found a brother who’d been lost to him.
His own personal Lazarus had returned from the dead and he wished she’d rejoice with him.

She’d been polite to Marcus over Sunday lunch, refraining from making barbed comments about his table manners. Adrian knew
her politeness had been that veneer of good manners assumed by the middle classes to hide the turmoil beneath. But the DNA
results would be with them in a few days and he hoped the confirmation that Marcus was indeed one of the family would make
her feel differently. Marcus had been talking about going to see a woman who knew his mother. He said he wanted to find out
as much as he could about her, which Adrian thought was perfectly understandable. We all long to know about our roots.

Adrian was starting to suspect that the difference in his own and Marcus’s upbringing was likely to cause some difficulties.
Certain things Marcus said jarred with Adrian’s middle-class sensibilities. He scattered the conversation liberally with four-letter
words and made the occasional politically incorrect comment that would be frowned upon in polite society. It was pure ignorance,
of course – they had grown up in different worlds. Nothing that couldn’t be
overcome with time and a bit of tactful brotherly advice. And Marcus possessed a natural charm, an openness, that made it
impossible to dislike him.

Marcus strolled out of the French windows into the garden and Adrian followed him, clutching his glass of shiraz by the slender
stem, something to occupy his hands. Marcus stopped suddenly at the big oak tree at the edge of the lawn and gazed up into
its branches. The leaves were still green; in a month or so they’d turn brown and carpet the grass. Adrian stood beside his
brother, wondering what there was about the tree that so fascinated him.

‘The tree house was up there, you know.’

‘I remember it. It rotted and became dangerous so it had to be taken down.’

‘I loved that bloody tree house.’ There was a faraway look in Marcus’s eyes. He was remembering. Perhaps, Adrian thought,
this would help him to remember the day his life changed for ever. He hoped so. He wanted to know the truth about what happened
himself.

They stood in silence for a while, paying homage to the past. Then suddenly Marcus spoke. ‘Jenny used to meet him there.’

‘Jenny?’

‘Jenny. She looked after me.’

‘Who did she meet?’

‘He must have been her boyfriend. The police told me his name but I can’t remember it. He had dark hair. He was a big bloke.
But I guess everyone would have seemed big in those days.’ Marcus turned to Adrian and looked him in the eye. ‘I think it
was him. I think he took me away.’ A spasm of pain crossed Marcus’s face. ‘The police said she was dead. I bet he bloody killed
her.’

Adrian’s heart began to beat fast, pounding in his chest. ‘You’ll have to tell the police,’ he said.

But Marcus had turned away as though he hadn’t heard and was starting to make for the river.

The money – another fifty thousand pounds – was to be taken to the car park at Bereton Sands the following day. Monday. It
was to be in used notes and left in the envelope Leah’s hair had been sent in. And it was to be left in a waste bin to the
left of the pay and display machine.

The note – again printed carefully on thin yellow paper – was to
be returned along with the money like before. Suddenly Wesley felt despondent. This kidnapper had thought things through
. . . had taken precautions. It was the careless ones who were easy to catch.

After contacting Forensics to request an examination of the note and envelope – with the strict understanding that they had
to be returned in time for the drop – the Wakefields were taken back to their car and sent home to await developments in the
care of Rachel Tracey. They insisted on phoning Brad Williams who said he’d return to Devon as soon as he could. The money
would be obtained from the bank tomorrow and the drop made. All they had to do now was to make sure that nothing went wrong
and hope the kidnapper didn’t get too greedy. He’d had fifty thousand already and was holding out for the same again.

They decided to go back to Gerry Heffernan’s house to grab something to eat. Rosie Heffernan was out seeing friends so they’d
have the place to themselves. It was Sunday afternoon and both men were tired. Too tired to hang around the police station
on uncomfortable institutional chairs. They walked through the Sunday streets in amicable silence, noting that the tourists
with young families had been replaced by retired couples making the most of the period between the end of the school holidays
and the onset of autumn.

They decided on a Sunday dinner of beans on toast washed down with tea. Gerry Heffernan made a good cup of tea – much better
than the stuff from the machine in the office – and once they were settled, Wesley sinking deep into the comfortable sofa,
the chief inspector glanced at his watch. ‘Wonder how Joyce is getting on. She’s taken her mum to Sedan House for a visit.’

‘I’m sure it’s for the best.’ Wesley knew he’d just uttered a platitude but he was lost for more meaningful words.

After a long silence Heffernan spoke again. ‘We never got to see Barry Houldsworth yesterday, did we? Fancy a swift half at
the Bentham Arms now? Our man’s bound to be there propping up the bar.’

‘And this time of day Houldsworth should be reasonably sober,’ said Wesley with what sounded to Gerry Heffernan like naive
optimism.

Wesley looked at his watch. He didn’t want to abuse Pam’s newfound tolerance. But Gerry Heffernan was making for the
door with steamroller determination and Wesley knew he’d have to follow. He had no choice. Anything that could help them
find Leah Wakefield alive had to be followed up. And if her kidnapping was connected in any way to the Marcus Fallbrook case,
ex-DCI Houldsworth was the man to talk to. And Wesley suspected that he hadn’t yet told them the whole story. There was something
he was keeping back.

‘So what have we got so far?’ Wesley asked as they drove down the winding A roads that led to Stoke Beeching. He wanted to
get things straight in his mind, a mind that thrived on order rather than chaos.

‘Leah Wakefield’s been kidnapped by someone who likes playing games . . . tormenting her family. Someone greedy.’

Wesley nodded. ‘She’s a celebrity and I reckon that’s why he’s asking for more money. To some people once you’ve stuck your
head above the parapet and entered the public eye, you cease to be a person and become a commodity. Then there’s the ransom
notes.’

‘Suspiciously like the ones sent to Marcus Fallbrook’s parents. Similar paper . . . similar wording. Same writing . . . well
either the same or very carefully copied . . .’

‘And Marcus has turned up.’

Gerry Heffernan snorted. ‘I won’t believe that until I see the results of that DNA test they’re supposed to have taken. Who’s
to say this bloke who’s just turned up hasn’t met someone who used to work for the family or . . .?’

‘You’re right of course,’ said Wesley. ‘But there is a remarkable family resemblance between Adrian Fallbrook and the man
who’s turned up claiming to be his brother.’

‘Half-brother.’

Wesley glanced at the chief inspector. It wasn’t like Gerry Heffernan to be so pedantic.

‘And what about the Barber?’ Heffernan continued. ‘I rang the hospital first thing. Chantelle Wetherby’s been discharged.
We haven’t had a full statement from her yet.’

‘That can wait till tomorrow. What I want to know is, why is he doing it? What kind of weirdo gets his kicks from hacking
off women’s hair like that, eh?’

‘Blonde women. That must be significant.’

Gerry Heffernan fell silent for a while. The reason why the
Barber did what he did was a mystery to them both. But madmen need no reason – their own twisted minds can supply motive
enough.

When they reached Stoke Beeching, Wesley brought the car to a halt outside the Bentham Arms.

As Gerry Heffernan stormed ahead, making for the pub door, his eyes were drawn to the church opposite, to the metal screens
and the blue plastic sheeting that was flapping lazily in the breeze. He turned round to address Wesley who was following
on his heels. ‘Your mate Neil not working today?’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘Has he found out anything about that skeleton yet?’

Wesley shook his head. As far as he knew the identity of the second skeleton in Juanita Bentham’s coffin remained a mystery.
But although he found it intriguing, he’d been far to preoccupied with his modern-day investigations to pay it much attention.

Once inside the pub the two men made for the corner where they’d first found Barry Houldsworth. Sure enough he was sitting
there, as if he’d not moved from the spot since their last visit. The pint glass in front of him was almost empty.

Wesley went to the bar and ordered a pint for Houldsworth, a half for Gerry Heffernan and an orange juice for himself. The
middle-aged woman who served him had a dyed blond helmet of hair and looked as though any awkward drunk who crossed her path
would come off worst. She also bore a strong resemblance to Barry Houldsworth and Wesley guessed she must be his sister, the
landlady of the establishment. When he returned to the table, Houldsworth took the pint without a word of thanks and downed
half of it in one gulp.

‘Jenny Booker’s boyfriend, Gordon Heather,’ Gerry Heffernan leaned forward to emphasise the importance of his enquiry. ‘What
can you tell us about him? Was he in the frame at the time?’

Houldsworth stared at the golden liquid in his glass for a few moments, deep in thought. Then he looked up. ‘The simple answer’s
yes. But we could never prove anything. He had access to the kid. He was his nanny’s boyfriend so he had his trust. And he
seemed a bit weird to me . . . very odd.’

‘But there was no evidence against him?’

‘He was a slippery bastard. Made sure he had alibis for the relevant times.’

‘Where did he say he was?’

‘With Jenny Booker at the actual time of the kidnapping. Shopping.’

‘No proof?’

‘They said they didn’t buy anything. They looked at engagement rings in a jeweller’s in Morbay and the assistant remembered
seeing them but he couldn’t confirm the exact time. It could have been before the kid was taken, or it could have been after.’

‘Would you go and look at engagement rings if you were about to abduct a kid?’ said Heffernan.

‘Unless they saw the ransom money as their key to the future,’ said Wesley. ‘It would have paid for the deposit on a house
in those days . . . put them in a position to get married.’ He turned to Houldsworth. ‘What did Heather do for a living?’

‘He worked in a boatyard. He was a bit of an oddball . . . hardly the type who could charm the birds out of the trees but
it seems he charmed the knickers off Jenny Booker somehow.’

‘She was besotted then? Under his influence?’

He considered the question for a few moments. ‘I’d say so.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Young. Impressionable. A bit thick. As far as I could see she adored the kid but who was to say she didn’t adore Heather
more?’

Heffernan scratched his head and took a sip of beer. ‘If Heather did a good job of convincing Jenny that the kid would come
to no harm, she’d probably have gone along with anything he said.’

‘Got it in one, Gerry.’

‘Trouble is, we’ll never know because, according to an old friend of the Fallbrooks, she killed herself not long after.’

Houldsworth raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose if she’d helped Heather to arrange the kidnapping and when she found out that her
boyfriend had a very different agenda to the one she’d imagined and the kid ended up dead, she was so overcome with remorse
that she felt she had no choice.’

‘Did you know about her suicide?’

‘I heard something.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us she was dead when we were here last?’

Houldsworth shrugged. ‘Didn’t think it was relevant. It was a while after she left Devon and, let’s face it, I wasn’t really
surprised.’