The Shining Skull (2 page)

It was time to make a start.

The Barber’s latest victim lived in the increasingly pricey village of Stokeworthy, in a cottage straight off a chocolate
box. Pink cob and thatch, it stood next to a small village school which, unlike many such schools in the area, was still open
for business, just. It seemed like every town dweller’s dream of rural living And Sienna Calder had acquired that dream. But
now, maybe, her idyll had turned into a nightmare.

Rachel Tracey lifted the heavy knocker, formed in the shape of
a Cornish pixie, and let it fall. As she waited for her knock to be answered she turned around and gave Wesley a shy smile
which he returned automatically.

After half a minute the door opened, just a little at first as though the resident was a nervous old lady, terrified of bogus
callers. After Rachel had done the introductions and poked her ID round the door for examination, the door was opened wider
to admit them.

As they stepped straight into the low-beamed sitting room, Wesley caught his first glimpse of their hostess and what he saw
shocked him. Sienna Calder had an attractive face, mature but, as yet, unmarked by the ravages of age. Wesley guessed she
was in her thirties and the clothes she wore had a well-cut simplicity that marked them out as expensive. But the sleek image
was marred by her hair, hacked inexpertly almost to the scalp like some Victorian workhouse child who’d been found to be crawling
with lice. He averted his eyes, feeling that it would be rude to stare.

‘How are you feeling?’ Rachel asked sympathetically.

Sienna slumped into a brown leather armchair. ‘It was a bit of a shock but at least he didn’t . . . .I suppose it could have
been worse. A lot worse.’ She put her hand tentatively to her head. ‘I expect it’ll grow back.’ The words were brave but Rachel
could detect a tremble in her voice.

‘Can you tell us exactly what happened?’ Wesley said gently.

Sienna nodded and invited them to sit.

‘My partner, Guy, works in London during the week. I work from home here for two days – I’m in IT – and I go up to London
on Wednesdays and stay in the apartment with Guy. Then we both come down here on Fridays.’

‘Rather a lot of toing and froing,’ said Rachel with a hint of disapproval. Her family had farmed the Devon earth for generations
and she felt the native’s resentment of wealthy Londoners who bought up weekend places and priced local youngsters out of
the housing market. But she tried to concentrate on the matter in hand. The woman had been attacked and her attacker had to
be caught.

Either Sienna hadn’t heard Rachel’s remark or she’d chosen to ignore it. She carried on. ‘I was catching the London train
from Neston and I ordered a taxi from the firm I usually use. A cab turned up, no problem. Everything seemed normal then .
. . ’

‘Go on,’ said Wesley quietly.

‘He started driving towards Neston. Then he turned off down a little lane . . . very narrow. Only room for one car.’

‘That could describe most lanes round here,’ said Rachel sharply. ‘Did you notice any signposts or . . . ?’

‘No, I was sitting on the back seat reading some business papers so I wasn’t really concentrating. I assumed he was just taking
a short cut.’

‘Then it became clear he wasn’t?’ said Wesley.

Sienna nodded. ‘It seemed to be taking rather a long time so I said something like, “I did say Neston railway station, didn’t
I?” But he said nothing. He just kept on driving down these lanes. That’s when I started to get really worried. I kept asking
him where he was going. I was going to tell him to stop the car then I thought better of it. We were in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Go on,’ Wesley prompted gently.

Sienna glanced at Rachel, as though for support, but Rachel avoided her eyes. It would be up to Wesley to do the tea and sympathy
bit.

‘He stopped the car. Then he got out. I tried the back doors but the child locks were on. I was trapped. I really started
to panic then, believe me.’ She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Well, you can imagine what I thought. It’s amazing how everything
you learn at self-defence classes goes out of the window when you’re faced with . . . ’

‘You thought he was going to rape you?’ Wesley was surprised at the lack of sympathy in Rachel’s voice.

‘Of course. I saw he had something in his hand. I thought it was a knife but now I know it was a pair of scissors. I remember
crouching on the floor of the car thinking that if he couldn’t drag me out, he wouldn’t be able to . . . But he was stronger
than me. I tried everything . . . biting . . . hitting out. But he dragged me out of the car onto the ground and pinned my
arms behind me and bound them with tape – I think it was that brown tape you use on parcels. I was so terrified that I couldn’t
even scream. Then I saw the flash of a blade and I thought, “this is it. He’s going to kill me.’’’ She took a deep breath.
Wesley could see her hands were shaking. ‘I closed my eyes and prayed. I’m not religious but I prayed.’

‘Go on,’ Wesley said quietly.

‘Then I just felt my hair being pulled and I heard . . . All I heard
was cutting. He was cutting my hair off. It seemed to go on for ever and . . . ’

Rachel leaned forward. ‘Did he say anything?’

‘Not till it was over. He must have used the scissors to cut the tape round my wrists then he just told me to get back in
the car. To tell you the truth, I was so relieved that he hadn’t raped me and that I was still alive, I just did as he said.’

‘Did you get the impression the motive was sexual?’

Sienna thought for a few moments. ‘I honestly don’t know. It might have been but he never tried to . . . ’ The sentence trailed
off.

‘What happened next?’

‘He drove fast and before I knew it we were on the outskirts of Neston. When we reached the station he got out and opened
the door and I jumped out. Before I had a chance to think about alerting anyone, he sped off.’ She gave Wesley a shy smile.
‘But I did get the registration number.’

Wesley and Rachel looked at each other. The other victims had taken the number too but when it had been checked out, it had
become clear that the attacker used a variety of false number plates along with his selection of false taxi stickers. But
the car was the same each time; an old dark-blue saloon, possibly a Ford – common as seagulls on Tradmouth waterfront.

‘What did he do with the hair,’ Wesley asked suddenly, although he knew the answer already from interviewing the other victims.

Sienna frowned and put her hand to her head, as though trying to conceal her attacker’s handiwork. ‘It was strange,’ she said
slowly. ‘He had a plastic bag . . . one of those self-sealing ones. He picked it up very carefully and put it in.’ There was
a long pause while she tried to find the right words to explain. ‘It was as if it wasn’t an attack on me personally. It was
as if there was some purpose to it. Does that make sense?’

Wesley smiled, reluctant to say that it didn’t make any sense to him. And, from the puzzled look on Rachel’s face, it perplexed
her too.

‘You’ve already given a description to the officer who took your statement. Average height, average build, baseball hat, droopy
moustache . . . ’

She nodded.

‘The other victims have given us different descriptions. It could be that he changes his appearance every time. Please think
carefully: is there anything else you can remember? His accent, for instance?’

Sienna shook her head. ‘He didn’t say much but I’m sure he wasn’t local. I’d say he sounded northern.’

Wesley leaned forward. ‘What sort of northern? Manchester? Liverpool? Yorkshire? Newcastle?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m sorry. Just northern.’

‘Well, that could be very helpful,’ said Wesley with an optimism he didn’t feel. ‘Do you think you could find the place where
he took you again?’

Sienna shook her shorn head vehemently. ‘It could have been anywhere around here. All these narrow lanes look exactly the
same, don’t they?’

‘You don’t remember passing any houses or crossroads or farms?’

After more negative answers, Wesley and Rachel took their leave with a plea for Sienna to get in touch if she remembered anything
more.

‘What do you think?’ Wesley asked as they climbed into the car.

‘I haven’t a clue,’ Rachel replied.

‘That makes two of us.’

Marcus returned his hired boat early that afternoon. The rain had held off, which was lucky, and as he sat on the quiet quayside
watching the car ferry scuttle to and fro across the river in the fading light, he wondered whether he should summon the courage
to go back there. It was late now and it would soon be dark. But there was no right time for something like this.

He wasn’t sure whether it was fear of rejection that was holding him back, or the simple possibility that nobody would believe
him in the first place. He had been out of their lives since 1976. How could he just turn up and say, ‘Hi, I’m home?’ Perhaps
he should send a letter. Or make a phone call. But that would be just as bad as turning up in person. However the news was
broken, it would come as a shock.

He had to face his return to life some time.

His guesthouse was up one of the steep streets that led away from the river front to the higher part of the town and the uphill
walk made him breathless. He decided not to go in – the landlady was the nosey type. Instead he climbed into his battered
red car
and backed it out of the front drive before heading for the main road out of Tradmouth.

Having studied the maps over and over again, he knew how to get to the house by road. He drove slowly down the narrow, unfamiliar
lanes. Last time he had been down them, he had been far too young to drive and he barely recognised the cottages and farm
gates that lined the route. The signposts to Derenham told him he was on the right road and as he pulled in to let a tractor
squeeze by, he realised he was on the brow of the hill that overlooked the village. Soon he’d be heading down the steep streets
past the church and down to the glittering ribbon of the River Trad. Then he’d branch off and head out of the village towards
the house. He remembered it best from the river of course – the river had been part of his life all those years ago. But he
thought he could find it from the road. He had to find it.

He drove through Derenham’s barely remembered streets, taking two wrong turnings. He was reluctant to ask for directions,
reluctant to involve strangers in this, the most momentous occasion of his adult life. He found himself wondering whether
anybody in Derenham would recognise him. But then time changes everything and everyone.

It took him fifteen minutes to find the house. He recognised the gates at once. And the name. Mirabilis. Over the past few
weeks he’d wondered whether they would have changed the name to something more sombre in view of what had happened there.
But it seemed they had kept it. Perhaps they’d been waiting for a miracle. The one they were about to experience.

He parked the car by the gate. It seemed right to go the rest of the way on foot. To walk back into their lives as he’d walked
out all those years ago.

It was dark now. Country dark without the jaundiced glow of street lighting. Instead the full moon and the pin-point stars
cast a silvery pall over the countryside. His eyes adjusted to the dimness as he walked up the drive, his footsteps on the
gravel crackling like gunfire in the silence.

The doorbell was new, he could tell. Plastic, not like the old brass bell push that had been there before. He placed his forefinger
on it and heard a buzzing noise from somewhere within the house. Then footsteps. There was no turning back now.

The door opened and a man stood there in the hallway, holding
the latch. There was something familiar about his face and Marcus realised that he was looking at himself, only changed .
. . different; younger; better groomed; taller; blue eyes rather than his own green. But the same shape of face; the same
mouth. The two men stood, staring at each other for a while, weighing each other up, neither wanting to break the spell.

It was Marcus who spoke first. ‘Does Mr Fallbrook still live here?’

The man in the hallway gave a brief nod, his eyes never leaving the newcomer’s face. ‘I’m Adrian Fallbrook.’

The newcomer looked confused. ‘No I meant . . . Mr Fallbrook. Mr Jacob Fallbrook.’

‘That’s my father. Look, I’m afraid he . . . ’

But Marcus wasn’t listening. His eyes were shining as the words spilled out. ‘You must be . . . ’ He hesitated. ‘My brother?’

Adrian Fallbrook looked confused. ‘What are you talking about. I haven’t got a brother.’

‘You don’t know who I am, do you? I’m Marcus. Marcus Fallbrook.’

Adrian Fallbrook’s mouth fell open and he stared at the visitor with disbelief.

‘I’m back.’ He hesitated, nervous. ‘I’m back from the dead. You going to ask me in or what?’

Letter from the Reverend Charles Boden, Rector of Stoke Beeching to Squire John Bentham, 7th May 1815

Sir,

It has come to my attention that the boy, Peter Hackworthy, is displayed around the county at halls and fairs like some common
sideshow. I have also heard it said that he performs at inns where the company is not fit for one of such tender years.

I put it to you, sir, that you bear some responsibility for this sorry situation for it was at your urging that Matthew Hackworthy
did embark upon this unfortunate path of displaying the boy’s rare and God given talents as though he were some performing
dog or dancing bear.

I beg you, sir, to spare the boy this indignity and allow him to use the gifts the Lord has given him in some respectable
manner. A gentleman of my acquaintance from Oxford would be willing to admit him to his school where he would receive an education
appropriate to his undoubted abilities. I took the liberty of mentioning this to Matthew and he would have none of it, but
I know you to have much influence with him and I entreat you to do all in your power, for the boy’s sake, to put an end to
this unfortunate state of affairs.

I am, sir, your servant, Charles Boden

DCI Gerry Heffernan feared he’d be late for work.

He had seen Joyce Barnes the previous night: they had visited the cinema and he had consumed more than his fair share of red
wine with his meal because Joyce had to drive home. Joyce had had a lot on her mind and it had all come pouring out as they
sat
drinking coffee after their meal. Joyce’s little problem. The thing that was bringing her to the edge of despair. Gerry had
listened – he had never considered himself a good listener but on this occasion he could think of nothing to say so he’d had
no choice.

Joyce had two options. To struggle on caring for her mother, holding down her full time job at Morbay Register Office and
making herself ill or to do as her doctor suggested and find a place where her mother could be looked after by professionals.
But it had to be Joyce’s decision. Gerry couldn’t make her mind up for her, much as he’d have liked to.

Because of his late and rather emotional night, he had overslept that morning. And, after throwing on yesterday’s clothes,
he’d arrived at the police station hot and bothered even though the September weather had cooled down considerably in the
past twelve hours, prompting fears that the Indian summer was at an end.

As he entered the CID office to a chorus of mumbled greetings he looked at his watch. Only fifteen minutes behind schedule
and nothing too urgent to command his attention. Only the spate of strange abductions by someone impersonating a taxi driver
who seemed to fancy himself as the next Vidal Sassoon. No doubt when they caught up with the joker in question, he’d have
some explanation for his bizarre activities. But in the meantime Gerry’s chief fear was that the attacks would escalate –
that next time it wouldn’t only be the woman’s hair that got cut.

Before gathering the troops for their morning briefing, he wanted to catch up on the latest news and gossip – official and
unofficial. So he made straight for Wesley’s desk.

Wesley, who’d been engrossed in his paperwork, looked up, eager for a distraction – any distraction. ‘Morning Gerry. Late
night last night?’

Gerry Heffernan felt himself blushing. ‘Me and Joyce went to the flicks then out for a meal. We got talking and . . . I had
to creep in so Rosie wouldn’t hear me.’

The DCI’s daughter, Rosie, had returned home after finishing her degree course at the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester.
Having made no attempt to secure any sort of permanent job, she had settled to a summer of seasonal bar work combined with
a regular slot playing piano in an exclusive Tradmouth restaurant. Although Heffernan was glad of his daughter’s
company, he hadn’t yet told her about his dates with Joyce. It was his guilty secret, his little rebellion against the tyranny
of the young.

Wesley sat back in his chair. ‘Why don’t you just tell her? She won’t mind her dad having a bit of companionship, surely.’

‘She was very close to her mum. Our Sam reckons she’d think me seeing any other woman was betraying Kathy’s memory.’

Wesley said nothing. In his opinion Rosie Heffernan was being selfish but he knew that sometimes it’s best to keep your opinion
to yourself.

‘So what happened yesterday? I was trapped with the Assistant Chief Constable and the Nutter discussing long term community
policing strategy and the role of policing amongst minorities in the twenty-first century – at least I think that’s what they
were discussing. Don’t ask me what was said ’cause all I can remember is that all that hot air gave me a splitting headache.’

Wesley assumed a sympathetic expression. Gerry Heffernan, like himself, held the deeply unfashionable opinion that the police
were there to protect the innocent and apprehend the guilty. Pam had often hinted at the possibility of Wesley pursuing promotion
but if it meant enduring a lifetime of time-wasting meetings when he could be using his energies more usefully, he’d rather
stay where he was.

‘You know our bogus taxi driver’s been at it again?’

‘Yeah. The report’s on my desk but I haven’t had a chance to read it properly yet. The papers are calling him the Barber.
They love it, don’t they? Putting the fear of God into every woman in the area.’

Wesley decided to give him a brief résumé before the report went the way of most things that ended up on the DCI’s desk, buried
under a layer of debris that needed someone with Wesley’s archaeological skills to disentangle. ‘Rachel and I saw the latest
victim yesterday afternoon. Her name’s Sienna Calder and she lives in Stokeworthy. She works in London three days a week and
she called a taxi as usual yesterday morning to take her to Neston to catch the London train. You can guess the rest, can’t
you?’

‘Taxi turns up. Everything seems kosher until he starts taking a strange route. He drives to an isolated spot, drags her from
the back of the car and cuts all her hair off. Then he takes her to where she wants to go.’

‘She took the registration number.’

‘False?’

‘Belongs to a minibus up in Yorkshire that’s used by a local Scout troop. We’ve been in touch with the registered owner and
he’s as puzzled as we are. And the description’s not much use – seems to be different every time. I reckon he changes his
appearance.’

Heffernan snorted. ‘A Master of Disguise! Didn’t they go out with Sherlock Holmes? And he must know about listening in to
taxi radio frequencies . . . And he’s able to either get hold of their logos . . .’

‘Or forge them?’

‘Whatever he does, he’s well organised. Why’s he doing it, Wes? What’s the point?’

Wesley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps it’s a power thing.’

‘Like rape you mean?’ Gerry Heffernan shuddered. ‘We’ll have to get him before he starts going further. Soon giving them a
bad hair day won’t be enough for him. That’s when he’ll become a serious danger. Anything from Forensics?’

‘Still waiting. But if it’s anything like the first, it won’t be much use. He leaves no DNA and takes the parcel tape he uses
to tie them up away with him so there’s no chance of getting fingerprints.’

‘Pity. Surely he must have been caught for something before . . . even if it’s only pinching knickers off washing lines.’

‘Sienna Calder said he didn’t say much but she thought he had some sort of northern accent.’

Heffernan’s eyes lit up. ‘Maybe there is a link with the Yorkshire minibus after all. Maybe it’s someone who used to own it
before the Scouts bought it second-hand and he’s still using the number. Get it checked out, will you?’

Wesley nodded, putting it on his long mental lists of things to be done.

‘These women . . . they all had long hair?’

‘Not when we saw them, they didn’t,’ said Wesley and immediately regretted his flippancy. ‘Yes, I think they did.’

‘And they were all blondes?’

‘You think he has a thing about long blond hair?’

‘If he has, we could use our Rach as bait. The tethered goat idea.’

Wesley was about to open his mouth to object but thought better of it. The thought of Rachel Tracey in danger made him uncomfortable.
But he knew that she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. Gerry Heffernan shouted ‘Come in’ and the door opened to reveal a puzzled
Trish Walton standing on the threshold.

‘Sir. There’s a man at the front desk wants to see you. He says it’s important. It’s about a kidnapping.’

Heffernan looked at Wesley and they both stood up. Maybe this was the lead on the Barber they needed at last.

‘What did he say exactly?’ Wesley asked.

Trish frowned, trying to remember the exact details. ‘He said his half brother was kidnapped back in the nineteen seventies
and they all thought he was dead. But he turned up last night, alive and well.’

Trish’s story grabbed Wesley’s interest. ‘Kidnapped?’

‘That’s what he said. His name’s Adrian Fallbrook. Why don’t you have a word with him?’

Wesley didn’t need asking twice, even if Gerry Heffernan seemed reluctant to add to his work load. Ten minutes later they
were both sitting in Interview Room One, face to face with a tall man, probably in his thirties, wearing a pristine white
T-shirt and jeans with neatly ironed creases. He wasn’t fat but he had a well fed, prosperous look about him. His clothes
looked as though they’d just come out of the packet and his wavy fair hair was longish but well cut. Wesley ordered tea. The
man looked as if he needed it.

‘I believe you want to talk to us about a visit you received from a man claiming to be your brother?’ Wesley began. Heffernan
was sitting beside him, listening intently. But he knew it would be up to him to do most of the talking.

‘I didn’t really know what to do but . . . ’

Wesley gave Adrian Fallbrook an encouraging smile. ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell us what happened to your brother.’

‘My half-brother,’ the man said quickly. ‘Marcus was my half-brother. My father had been married before, you see, but his
first wife – Marcus’s mother – died. My mother was a nurse and she looked after her through her illness . . . cancer. That’s
how my
parents met. They married eighteen months after his first wife’s death.’

‘Does your father know Marcus has turned up?’

‘My father died last month. A stroke.’

‘I see,’ said Wesley. Something, some vague memory, stirred in the back of his mind. Some mention in a newspaper perhaps,
of the death of a wealthy retired businessman whose son had been kidnapped many years ago. It had only half registered and
now he wished he’d taken more notice. ‘Presumably your mother knew Marcus?’

‘No. He’d . . . .he was abducted a year before my father’s first wife fell ill. I’ve heard it said that the stress of the
kidnapping brought on her illness. They say it can, don’t they? Besides, my own mother died last year. She went into hospital
for a routine operation and caught an infection. There was nothing they could do.’

Wesley could detect a tremor in the man’s voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said automatically.

‘Aye, terrible that,’ Gerry Heffernan chipped in. It was the first time he’d spoken and Adrian Fallbrook looked up and gave
him the ghost of a smile, acknowledging his attempt at sympathy.

‘You said your half-brother was kidnapped?’

‘Yes . . . in 1976. Of course it was long before I was born and nobody talked about it when I was young. But when I was about
eleven, my father . . . I knew he’d been married before and . . . Well, I didn’t know anything about my half-brother. I didn’t
even know I had one until . . . ’ He took a deep breath. ‘One day my father took me out on the river; on his boat – he had
a yacht, you see. It must have been May or June. It was sunny and there was a breeze. Perfect sailing weather.’

Gerry Heffernan nodded. As a sailor himself he appreciated the niceties.

Adrian continued. ‘When he took her out to sea he hardly said a word for a while. Then he said he had something to tell me
. . . something important. He’d had another little boy a long time ago and he’d disappeared one day. He’d been taken off by
wicked people and he’d never come home. I could tell he found it painful to talk about it but he said he wanted to tell me
before I heard about it from someone else.’ He paused, swallowing hard. ‘I must admit, I didn’t really understand the enormity
of it then. I mean, you
don’t at eleven, do you? I remember asking why the police hadn’t caught the wicked people.’ He gave another sad smile. ‘The
young have a very naive concept of justice, don’t they?’

‘Simple maybe, but not altogether naive,’ said Wesley with a frown. ‘How did you feel about your father’s revelation?’

‘Feel?’ He inclined his head to one side. ‘I don’t know. It was hard to take in at first, I suppose. Then gradually things
began to make sense. It explained so much. Why my father was overprotective. And why people – grown-ups – whispered behind
my back as though they had some secret that I wasn’t allowed to hear. I’d been sent away to school at seven. I suppose it
was thought that if I’d gone to a local school I might have found out. Parents gossip and their kids overhear and put two
and two together, don’t they?’

‘You can’t keep much from kids,’ said Heffernan. ‘So this missing half-brother’s turned up on your doorstep?’

‘Last night.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know where he is at this very moment but I presume he went back to Tradmouth last night.’ He hesitated. ‘If he is
. . . if he is who he says he is, there’s quite a bit of money involved. My father, understandably, was reluctant to make
the final acknowledgement that Marcus was dead so his will stipulated that if he was ever to turn up, he would have a half
share of the family property. Nobody thought he actually would, of course.’