The Shining Skull (17 page)

‘Why’s that?’

‘Like I said, she probably couldn’t live with the guilt, poor little cow.’

Something about Houldsworth’s attitude annoyed Wesley but he made an effort not to show it. They had to keep the ex-DCI co-operative.

‘Did she leave the area right away after the kidnapping?’

Houldsworth shrugged. ‘Pretty much . . . went back to her family.’

Wesley looked Houldsworth in the eye. ‘But if she had been involved and she knew the child had survived, she’d have had no
reason to kill herself, would she?’

‘You’re thinking of this joker who’s turned up claiming the Fallbrook inheritance, are you? If I were you, I wouldn’t believe
everything you’re told, Detective Inspector.’ He said the last words with heavy sarcasm.

‘How much is the inheritance exactly?’

Houldsworth downed the remainder of his pint. ‘Definitely enough to kill for, I reckon. There was family money going back
years. The Fallbrooks had something to do with the boat builders across the river. It was thriving at one time . . . used
to build light-ships and trawlers there. The business has shrunk over the years and they only repair yachts now. It used to
be Afleck and Fallbrook in its heyday but Fallbrook got out before the slump.’

‘Afleck’s boatyard. I know it,’ said Heffernan, the authority on all things maritime. ‘They fitted the
Rosie May
with a new keel a couple of years back.’

‘Old man Fallbrook – Marcus’s father – was a ruthless bastard, so rumour had it. Pulled out when the going got rough and left
Afleck in the shit. He’s still in business – just. But the yard’s a shadow of its former self.’ Houldsworth banged his fist
down on the table as though he’d just remembered something. ‘Gordon Heather – he worked for Afleck’s boatyard. And he left
suddenly after the kidnapping. Him and Jenny both left the area.’

‘Together?’

Houldsworth shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t meet up again later.’

‘Where did you say Jenny Booker’s family lived?’

Houldsworth looked at Wesley. In spite of the amount he’d had to drink it was obvious his brain was still sharp. Wesley began
to fear he might have underestimated him. ‘I didn’t. It was somewhere near Bristol, I think. Or maybe it was Birmingham.’

Heffernan frowned. ‘Well, which is it?’

Houldsworth shrugged. ‘You’re a detective. You find out. I’ve retired. Caught my last villain years ago.’

That was it. Houldsworth slumped back in his seat as though the effort of the conversation had exhausted him.

They thanked the man and stood up. They weren’t going to get anything more. They’d read through Houldsworth’s notebooks and
they both suspected that there were a lot of things left unsaid; things the ex-DCI hadn’t wanted to commit to paper; things
he’d kept locked up in his head. They’d exhausted the lode for now but in a few days, if they still hadn’t made any progress,
they’d try again.

They began to make for the pub door. Wesley looked at his watch. Three o’clock. If he went straight home, he could still give
Pam and the kids a small sliver of his time. Not enough, of course, but at least it was something.

But as soon as he saw Neil Watson at the bar, deep in earnest conversation with the landlady, he knew his best laid plans
were about to be scuppered. He hesitated, torn between the natural urge to greet his friend and his domestic duty. The latter
won and he was sneaking out of the pub in Gerry Heffernan’s wake when Neil spotted him and called across the lounge bar.

It was Gerry Heffernan who turned and made for the bar. ‘If you’re not down a hole, you’re in a pub. Wes, it’s your mate Neil.’

There was no way Wesley could escape. He retraced his steps, Heffernan following in his wake, and gave Neil a brave smile.
‘I thought you’d be taking the day off.’

‘I am . . . sort of. I asked last night if I could see upstairs and May here said to come back when it was quieter.’

Wesley inclined his head, awaiting an explanation. But it was Gerry Heffernan who asked the obvious question. Why did Neil
Watson want to examine the upper storey of the Bentham Arms?

Neil didn’t answer. After checking that nobody needed serving and shouting over to her brother to keep an eye on the bar,
the landlady led the way up a staircase covered with sagging patterned carpet. When they reached the top of the building,
she flung open a battered door. ‘In there. Turn the light off when you come down,’ she said before disappearing back down
the stairs.

Neil felt round the corner for the light switch, aware of Wesley and Gerry Heffernan standing behind him, their presence somehow
comforting in that strange, unknown place.

The light flashed on, a bare bulb hanging from a grubby wire in the centre of the large attic room.

As they stepped into the windowless room Heffernan said something softly under his breath that Neil and Wesley couldn’t quite
make out. The floorboards were bare and there was no furniture but the walls made up for the room’s plain simplicity. They
were covered in symbols, executed in muted vegetable colours that hinted at antiquity. They reminded Wesley of Egyptian hieroglyphics;
pictograms that narrated some truth . . . or maybe some fiction.

Neil began to walk around the room, with the casual interest of a visitor to an art gallery doing a circuit of the paintings.
The far wall was filled with a large seven-pointed star with a flower at its centre as though it was meant to be the focus
of the room. Neil stood staring at it for a few seconds before turning to his companions.

‘What do you think?’ asked Wesley quietly.

‘Probably some sort of code. The Shining Ones would have known what it meant.’

Heffernan looked bemused. ‘Shining Ones?’

Neil proceeded to outline the bare bones of what he knew, which, he acknowledged, wasn’t much.

‘Any good at code-breaking?’ Wesley asked.

Neil looked at him and shrugged. ‘I know the basics – looking for the most frequently used letters and all that. It shouldn’t
be hard to crack. I might give it a go.’

Wesley looked at his watch. ‘We’ll leave you to it then. Pam’ll be wondering where I am.’

Neil opened his mouth to reply but he thought better of it. He would have been glad of some company up there. The room gave
him a strange feeling and he didn’t relish the thought of being there alone. But he knew Wesley had no choice.

Wesley dropped Gerry Heffernan back at his cottage on Baynard’s Quay before driving home.

As he approached his front door he heard Amelia exercising her lungs. He was needed. But he thought of Neil in that strange
room and wished he was somewhere else.

Somehow Leah Wakefield hadn’t expected the door to be locked. She’d imagined that her bonds would have been enough to convince
her captor that escape was impossible. She’d managed to
free herself from the ropes and, by her reckoning, she had plenty of time before he returned. Plenty of time to find her
way out of there somehow.

Her prison was a wooden building, a boathouse or a shed; probably the former because she could hear the lapping of water outside.
There were shutters of some kind on the windows so the room was pitch dark. And it must have been well away from civilisation
as she hadn’t heard the sound of human voices in all the time she’d been there. But she had heard the distinctive whistle
of a steam train from time to time which told her that she was somewhere near the steam railway that ran from Morbay to Queenswear.
Somewhere along the stretch of river that ran within earshot of the line. The knowledge that she wasn’t in the middle of nowhere
gave her fresh confidence.

She walked around the room, exercising the muscles, honed for her elaborate dance routines but now stiff with disuse, looking
for some way out of the place before her abductor returned. As she walked, her foot came into contact with something hard.
She bent down and picked it up and found it was a torch. He’d left his torch there by the door, ready for his visit. She flicked
it on and flashed the beam around the room.

There was a cupboard in the corner, roughly made and covered in ancient paint that flaked off the surface like diseased flesh.
She walked over to it and as she opened it there was a loud creak. She froze, listening, for a few moments. Then she reached
inside and her hands touched paper: a neatly stacked pile of virgin yellow paper; A4 size; typing paper perhaps.

Beside the pile were some loose sheets, slightly crumpled as though they’d already been written on. She drew them out with
trembling fingers and began to examine them by the light of the torch. Her puzzlement slowly gave way to horrible realisation.
There were three sheets in all . . . drafts of ransom notes, roughly written with crossings out. Someone, her abductor, was
asking for money for her return.

But as she read the notes more carefully, she realised that they didn’t apply to her. They demanded fifteen thousand pounds
for the return of someone called Marcus. She wondered where he was being kept . . . or if his abduction was still in the planning
phase. She stuffed the notes back in the cupboard before shutting the door. When she was free she would tell the police about
them. Stop the bastard’s games for ever.

She walked across the room and kicked at the door experimentally. Then she noticed a section of rotten wood at the foot of
the door and after a few hearty blows it yielded a little. Encouraged, she set to work on the spongy wood and soon she had
made a hole in the door the size of a cat flap. With more determined kicks the hole expanded.

But just as she knelt down, preparing to make her escape she heard the hollow sound of footsteps on the bare wooden steps
outside.

She flattened herself against the wall and held her breath. He – or was it a she? – was back.

Letter from Letitia Corly to Elizabeth Bentham, 12th September 1815

Mr Dearest Elizabeth

I thank you most heartily for the remedy you sent with your servant. My mother’s trouble is now much relieved thanks to your
kindness.

Is not the servant you sent sister to the boy Peter Hackworthy who has been much spoken of of late? She did not have the appearance
of one whose brother is hailed as a genius but then appearances often deceive.

I hear Joan Shiner is to be at the Assembly Hall in Tradmouth at the end of this month. I trust you will be there for I am
eager to see her for myself. Tell me, can she cast spells? For I am in sore need of some sorcery that would encourage Captain
Ross’s attentions. At the ball he danced much but only twice with me.

I pray you, write soon and it may be that we shall meet in Tradmouth on the night of Mrs Shiner’s performance.

Your affectionate friend, Letitia Corly

‘Barber victim hurt.’

He held the local paper at arm’s length and read the headlines again.

She’d struggled. It had been her own fault. Stabbing her with the scissors had been a terrible accident but he knew nobody
would believe the truth. They judged everyone by their own standards – the standards of the gutter.

Leaving the flickering computer screen, he walked to the drawer and pulled it open. He had added her hair to the rest,
although he had washed it, cleansed it of her blood. He wondered whether the blood had rendered it useless, blemished. But
on consideration, he’d decided to use it anyway. These things weren’t easy to come by.

He sat in front of the mirror and looked at the dark wig. He’d look different this time.

He would darken his face a little to give him an Asian appearance. They weren’t looking for an Asian minicab driver and he
couldn’t be too careful.

His mission was almost accomplished. Soon the car, the car that now smelled of stale cloths and blood, could be abandoned.
It would soon be over.

Monday morning dawned bright and Wesley Peterson woke up feeling hopeful. The ransom would be dropped. And with any luck,
Leah Wakefield would be returned to the bosom of her notso-loving family.

At the back of his mind the vague suspicion that it was all some kind of elaborate set-up lingered like an irritating, unforgettable
jingle. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, so the saying went. And maybe Brad Williams didn’t seem to be as worried as
he should be.

He watched Pam as she put Michael’s shoes on ready for school. He would have liked to ask her opinion; to know whether she
too thought the whole case didn’t smell right. But there was a news embargo and the subject couldn’t be discussed outside
the police station in case a careless word alerted the kidnapper to the fact that the police had been called in. It was a
precaution worth taking. If the kidnap was for real a girl’s life could be at risk.

He and Pam left the house at the same time, their lips meeting for a split second in an absentminded kiss before they went
their separate ways. At eight forty-five Wesley reached the police station and was greeted by Rachel who was bearing down
on him with the determination of one who has momentous news to impart.

‘The Barber tried it on again last night. A waitress at a restaurant in Tradmouth ordered a taxi as usual from Tradcabs. She
wasn’t suspicious when the taxi arrived. She uses the firm almost every night and she just thought he was a new driver.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He stopped the car on the road to Whiteley – that’s where she lives so he didn’t do a detour this time – and when she tried
the door she found that the child locks were on. Lucky for her she had her wits about her and as soon as he opened the door
she managed to push past him and she ran down the lane . . . flagged down a passing car. The fake minicab sped off and that
was it.’

‘She was lucky. How is she now?’

‘Trish took her statement and she reckoned that she was more angry than shocked.’ She grinned. ‘I think our man met his match
with her.’

‘Has she told us anything useful?’

‘She said he was Asian. Foreign accent.’

Wesley shook his head. ‘Either it’s a copy cat attack or he’s changing his appearance. Does the DCI know about this yet?’

Rachel nodded. ‘He thought that woman getting hurt might have put him off for a bit but . . . ’

‘If it is the same man it obviously hasn’t.’

‘He reckons the whole thing’s escalating and it’ll only be a matter of time before someone gets seriously hurt . . . ’ She
hesitated. ‘Or even killed.’

‘I take it she was blond?’

‘Oh yes. She managed to scratch his face and she had the presence of mind not to wash her hands so Forensic have taken samples
from under her fingernails. They can’t be definite yet but it looks as if he used theatrical make-up.’

He looked at Rachel. There were dark rings under her eyes. She looked exhausted. ‘Had much sleep?’

Rachel stifled a yawn. ‘I was up playing nursemaid to Suzy Wakefield till one in the morning. She’s getting jittery about
the drop this morning.’ She yawned. ‘When Jan came to relieve me I thought I’d come here – catch up with what’s going on.
I’m going stir crazy down at the Wakefield place. Talk about claustrophobia. The Wakefields keep bickering at each other.
But at least that Brad Williams has gone – said he had business in London. I was getting sick of him hanging round like a
bad smell. I don’t trust that man, Wes, I really don’t.’

‘Think he’s got something to do with it?’

‘We’ve had details from her mobile company of the last call Leah made. It was after she left the house and it was to Brad
Williams’s mobile.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘He didn’t mention getting a call from her.’

‘No. He didn’t,’ said Rachel, the words heavy with meaning.

‘Publicity stunt?’

‘He’s made all the right noises but to be honest it wouldn’t surprise me. But, mind you, if that’s the case I’m sure Suzy
and Darren aren’t in on it. Their reaction’s absolutely genuine.’

‘They’ve got the money together?’

Rachel nodded. ‘Darren went to the bank in Morbay first thing. They’re driving to Bereton at eleven. We’re watching their
backs.’

‘Not too obviously, I hope.’

‘If it’s Williams, it hardly matters, does it?’

‘If it’s Williams, we’ll throw the book at him for wasting police time. But there’s always a chance it isn’t, in which case,
we stay out of sight.’

At that moment Gerry Heffernan appeared at the door of his office. ‘Wes. A word.’

Rachel touched Wesley’s arm gently. ‘I’d better get back to the Wakefields’ . . . See that everything’s ready for the drop
. . . Top Suzy up with Valium if necessary.’

Wesley shot Rachel a sympathetic smile and hurried into the DCI’s office.

‘Thought you might have gone back to the pub last night to give Neil a hand,’ Heffernan said as he entered.

Wesley smiled. ‘And risk the wrath of Pam? No, I had a long bath and an early night. Thought we might be in for a busy day
today. Rach says Darren Wakefield’s got the money and the drop’s all set up.’

‘Let’s just hope he lets her go this time. The last thing we need is for this to drag on. I don’t know how much longer we’ll
be able to keep it out of the papers – there’s cleaners and all sorts around the Wakefield house who might get the idea something’s
up if they keep being told to keep away from the place. It only takes one of them to get curious and go to the press . . .
’

‘Let’s not think about that, eh?’ said Wesley. ‘What about this connection with the Marcus Fallbrook kidnapping?’

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head.

‘The notes are virtually identical.’

‘And all the detail about them – the paper, the wording and so on – was kept under wraps at the time of Marcus’s abduction.
Nobody who wasn’t involved could have known.’

‘What I want to know is where Gordon Heather, the nanny’s boyfriend, is now.’

‘He’s number one suspect, I suppose.’

‘Too right,’ said Wesley. ‘What’s to say he’s not round here now . . . using another name.’

‘Something went wrong when he took Marcus Fallbrook and he had to dump the kid. But now he’s desperate for money and he’s
decided to do the same again . . . Only he’s gone for Leah Wakefield . . . someone in the public eye. Someone he knows has
a lot of disposable cash. He’s going to make sure everything goes like clockwork this time.’

‘With age comes experience,’ said Wesley. ‘We don’t even know what Heather looked like. I presume we’ll be visiting Jenny
Booker’s family at some stage. There might be a photo of him amongst her things . . . if they’ve kept them.’

‘Let’s start a bit closer to home, eh? He used to work at Afleck’s boatyard, didn’t he? It was a long time ago but there’s
a chance that someone there might remember him.’

Wesley nodded. ‘Have we got time to go over there now . . . before the drop?’

Gerry Heffernan shook his head.

Wesley told Heffernan about the call to Brad Williams that Leah had made just before she disappeared but the DCI didn’t seem
particularly excited by the information. Asking Williams to explain himself was put on their long list of things to do.

Through the glass partition separating the DCI’s lair from the main CID office Wesley could see Steve Carstairs sitting at
his desk, gazing out of the window. Not that Wesley could blame him: the view from the office window over the memorial gardens
and the river was an attractive one and there were times when Wesley had been lured away from the path of duty by it himself.
‘We could always send Steve to Afleck’s,’ he suggested.

Heffernan shrugged. He didn’t have a very high opinion of DC Carstairs’s skills as a detective but he supposed that even he
couldn’t go far wrong asking a couple of simple questions at the boatyard. Did anybody remember Gordon Heather and, if so,
did anyone have any idea where he was now?

Once Steve had accepted his task with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner being led from the dock to begin a five-year stretch
at
Dartmoor, Wesley and Heffernan called the team together for a briefing.

One mistake on their part and Leah Wakefield might die.

The kidnapper had made a wise choice. There wasn’t much scope for concealment at Bereton Sands – a mile-long crescent of shingle
beach some four miles west of Tradmouth, licked by the unpredictable tides of Lyme Bay. In the summer children played there,
running, playing and dipping small limbs in the treacherous waters. During the Second World War hundreds of US troops had
died there rehearsing for the D-Day landings. Knowing this last, grim part of its history, Wesley couldn’t help thinking of
the beach as a sad place – on days out with Pam and the children he avoided it if possible.

He drove down the coast road towards the car park with Gerry Heffernan silent in the passenger seat. He wouldn’t stop there.
It would be too obvious. Trish Walton and Paul Johnson were doing the undercover work, walking hand in hand along the beach
like a courting couple, skimming stones into the sea, laughing and chasing. Paul had even brought his dog along to provide
extra cover – a notoriously dopey golden spaniel whose only resemblance to a police dog lay in the fact that it belonged to
the same species.

Wesley put his hazard lights on and brought the car to a halt before he took a map from the glove compartment and pretended
to study it. It was a map of the London area but the casual observer wasn’t to know that. As far as appearances went, they
were two men who’d taken a wrong turning and had stopped to get their bearings.

Heffernan looked out of the window and grinned. ‘There they are. Love’s young dream. The dog’s a good touch. Whose idea was
that?’

‘Paul’s.’

Heffernan looked impressed. ‘Good lad, Paul. Taking his sergeant’s exams, isn’t he?’

‘I believe so. But it’d be a pity if we lost him back to uniform.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes to go. Any sign of
the Wakefields’ car?’

Heffernan craned his neck to look in the rear-view mirror. ‘Looks like them now. Big silver Merc coming up our backside like
a bat out of hell.’

‘I hope they’re ready in the car park.’ Two officers in an unmarked van were pretending to mend the pay and display machine.
Wesley only hoped they were making a convincing job of it. He started the car and drove slowly past the car park entrance
just in time to see a nervous looking Darren Wakefield climbing out of his car, a plastic carrier bag clutched to his chest.
He turned to the left and brought the car to a halt in the car park of a small hotel. They could see their quarry from there,
standing awkwardly by the Second World War tank that stood as a memorial to the dead. Darren was still holding the bag. And
something else; a piece of paper which he studied with a puzzled frown on his face.

Darren Wakefield hadn’t dumped the money and he was moving. He had begun to march quickly out of the car park and he was heading
for the beach. Something was wrong.

Wesley was about to get out of the car but Heffernan put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Hang on. Let’s not do anything hasty.’

Wesley did as he was told. He sat tight while Darren disappeared from view. Trish and Paul were there, he told himself, trying
to convince himself that he could safely leave the responsibility to them . . . and not quite succeeding.

‘OK,’ said Heffernan after a couple of tense minutes. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we? Casual, like.’

They climbed out of the car slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. By unspoken agreement they walked towards the
beach, scanning the golden fringe of shingle for Darren Wakefield. But he was nowhere to be seen. He had either returned to
his car or he’d walked up towards the village of Bereton and they’d missed him altogether. Wesley experienced something akin
to panic. It had all gone wrong. Leah Wakefield’s safety had been entrusted to him and he had blown it.