The Shining Skull (20 page)

Gerry Heffernan lowered himself down onto the sofa and looked Marcus in the eye. ‘You won’t have heard yet but a young woman’s
been kidnapped . . . ’

Carol sat up, suddenly interested.

Wesley assumed a suitably solemn expression. ‘And I’m afraid she was found dead this afternoon. We’re working on the assumption
that she was murdered.’

Carol’s hand went to her mouth.

‘That’s terrible,’ Adrian muttered, Marcus echoing his words after a few seconds’ delay.

Wesley looked at Marcus. ‘You can understand, Mr . . . Jones.’

‘Fallbrook,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m using my real name now.’

Wesley nodded. ‘We’d like to talk to you again about your own abduction. If it was indeed the same perpetrator, you might
be able to give us vital information.’

‘What makes you think it’s the same person who kidnapped Marcus?’ Adrian asked.

‘There are certain similarities,’ said Wesley. ‘The notes sent to the young woman’s family are virtually identical to the
ones sent to your parents, both the wording and the distinctive paper used.’

Marcus stared down at his feet. Then, after a few moments, he
looked up. ‘I don’t remember anything much about it. I’m trying my best and bits keep coming back but . . . ’

‘We had a case not long ago where hypnotism was used to retrieve a woman’s memory of a crime that happened when she was a
child. It was very successful.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘I’ve got a phobia about things like that . . . not being in control. I suppose it comes from the time
when I was . . . ’

‘It’ll be done properly by a consultant psychiatrist. You’ll come to no harm, I assure you.’

Marcus thought about the proposition for a few moments then he took a deep breath. ‘OK. If it helps, I’ll do it.’ He looked
up. ‘Like I said, I keep remembering things . . . little things. I think it’s being back here . . . where it all happened.
I keep thinking of Jenny. When I close my eyes I can see her. She was really pretty and . . . ’

‘She committed suicide about a year after you were abducted. I’ve seen the inquest findings and it seems that she blamed herself.’
Wesley watched the man’s face carefully and saw a flash of something that looked like pain in his eyes.

‘She was really nice. I . . . I loved her,’ he said softly.

‘What about her boyfriend, Gordon Heather?’

Marcus frowned. ‘I didn’t like him. I remember being scared of him . . . wishing he’d go away.’

Wesley drew the picture of the football team that Teddy Afleck had given to Steve out of his pocket and put it on the coffee
table in front of Marcus. ‘Do you recognise anyone there?’

Marcus picked it up and held it at arm’s length. ‘Should I?’

‘Look carefully. Are any of the faces familiar.’

He stared at the photograph. ‘It was a long time ago. I was only seven.’ He was silent for a few seconds while he studied
each face. ‘He had dark hair . . . is that him?’ He pointed to a man on the front row who wasn’t, Wesley had to admit, dissimilar
from the real target on the back row. At least Marcus had picked out someone of the right physical type which wasn’t bad after
all those years.

‘I’m sure my brother wants to help in any way he can,’ said Adrian Fallbrook with a hint of priggishness.

‘Of course I do,’ said Marcus quickly.

‘We can make arrangements for you to see that doctor then?’ said Heffernan.

Marcus hesitated before giving a nod of assent. Wesley noticed he was fidgeting with the front of his shirt. He’d been telling
the truth when he’d said that the idea of hypnosis made him nervous.

Wesley suddenly remembered something else he’d wanted to ask. ‘Your mother’s friend . . . Mrs Tranter. Are you still willing
to meet her?’

Marcus nodded. ‘Yeah. Why not?’ he replied before draining his glass of whisky.

Rachel Tracey wanted a change of scene. She’d been with the Wakefields since Leah’s disappearance and, now the worst had happened,
she felt she couldn’t take any more. She had talked to Gerry Heffernan and he’d agreed to send someone else to stay with the
family while the investigation continued. It wasn’t that she didn’t pity the Wakefields. But she needed to get out of that
gilded cage for the sake of her own sanity.

Since she’d received her reprieve, it felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders and when Gerry Heffernan
and Wesley Peterson arrived at the Wakefield house, she greeted them with a smile that was inappropriately cheerful.

‘How are things?’ Wesley asked quietly as he stepped over the threshold.

‘The doctor’s given Suzy a sedative and she’s gone to bed.’ She hesitated. ‘And the manager, Brad Williams, is back. Says
he’s here to support Suzy and Darren but if you ask me, he’s got his own agenda.’

‘Apart from protecting his investment and wanting to get his money back?’

‘Mmm. He’s looking bloody worried. I’m sure he’s hiding something.’

Gerry Heffernan gave her an affectionate slap on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, Rach. Well done. WPC Hanwell’s taking over from you
later so if I were you I’d go home and get a good night’s sleep.’

Wesley looked at his watch. It was six thirty and hunger was gnawing at his stomach. It had been a long day. He needed a break
himself if he was going to be at his best.

‘I suggest we have a quick word with the Wakefields then go back to the station to collect our thoughts. We’ll make an early
start in the morning.’

The chief inspector barged ahead, Wesley and Rachel following
in his wake. Darren Wakefield was slumped on the sofa, a cigarette between his fingers poised over the overflowing ashtray
which lay on the seat beside him. He looked as if he’d been punched. The worst had happened and he was in his own private
hell. He didn’t bother looking up when the policemen entered the room.

Wesley felt Heffernan nudge his arm. It was up to him to do the talking. ‘Sorry to bother you at a time like this,’ Wesley
began. ‘But we’d like to ask some questions.’

Darren gave a small shake of the head, indicating that he wanted to be left alone. Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other.
Perhaps it would be best to leave it till the morning. It was then they noticed Brad Williams, standing by the bar in the
far corner of the room. Slowly, almost nonchalantly, Leah Wakefield’s manager strolled over to the sofa and stood behind Darren,
arms folded.

‘What about you, Mr Williams? Do you mind answering some questions?’

Williams shrugged. ‘Why not?’ He glanced at Darren. ‘Not here, eh.’

He led the way into the gleaming white kitchen and sat down on a high stool. ‘I wanted to talk to you actually. There are
things you should know and now Leah’s . . . ’

‘Now she’s dead?’ Heffernan said bluntly, watching the man’s face.

Williams looked uncomfortable. ‘Yeah . . . er . . . ’

‘What did you want to tell us?’ said Wesley. His empty stomach was making inappropriate noises and he hoped they couldn’t
be heard.

‘A few weeks ago Leah thought she was being watched.’

Heffernan pulled himself up to his full height and glowered down at the man on the stool who was starting to look nervous.
‘And you didn’t think to report it?’

‘That’s cause I didn’t believe her. She was always saying things like that. Darren was off the scene then and she didn’t want
to worry Suzy so I dealt with it. I asked a couple of roadies to keep an eye on her while she was in London and I told her
to call me if ever she was frightened but she never did. The roadies never saw anything unusual and it all blew over – she
never mentioned it again. I didn’t think it was important. She was an imaginative girl. An artiste. Highly strung.’

‘But now you think she might have been telling the truth?’

‘I don’t know. But I thought I’d better mention it.’

‘Did she describe the person who was watching her?’

‘No. But he drove a dark-coloured car. A Ford Mondeo. She called him Mondeo Man. I reckon it might have been some photographer.
Paparazzi. She should have been used to it. She shouldn’t have let it get to her.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. ‘This man we’re calling the Barber – the one who abducts women and cuts off their
hair – he drives a dark-coloured saloon . . . possibly a Ford.’

Brad Williams looked Wesley in the eye. ‘Well, I don’t want to teach you your job, but I suggest you find him.’

Letter from Juanita Bentham to Mrs Jewel of Brighton, 3rd February 1816

My Dearest Mrs Jewel,

I feel I must write for I am most vexed with my sister-in-law, Elizabeth, and her strange obsession with this so-called prophetess,
Joan Shiner. She scolds me constantly for refusing to attend the woman’s meetings and says I should not listen to our Rector,
Mr Boden, who calls Mrs Shiner a false prophet of the kind warned against in the Bible. Joan Shiner has a grip on the hearts
and minds of many of the villagers, almost as though she has some power over them. Sir John tolerates his sister’s fancies,
saying she has always been a silly creature and is in sore need of a husband, but I am worried for her and I would seek your
advice.

I find myself in good health as my time draws near and yet there is something that worries me. The relations of that prodigious
child known as the Amazing Devon Marvel have been concerning me of late. The boy’s sister Annie, a sly girl, is Elizabeth’s
maidservant and his eldest brother, Joseph, is a carpenter on the estate. This Joseph watches me in a most impudent manner:
perhaps he has never seen anybody before with a dark complexion such as mine but I find his stares objectionable. When I chided
him one day for beating a dog, he gave me such a look that I feared at that moment for my life. And yet I am reluctant to
mention his impertinence to Sir John who would dismiss him at once and deprive him of his livelihood.

I look forward greatly to receiving your good counsel, oh wisest of friends.

Your loving friend, Juanita Bentham

* * *

The day began early at Sedan House. The residents had to be got up and dressed. Rather like young children they had to be
coaxed and cajoled into putting the correct arm into the correct sleeve. And over the years she had worked as a care assistant,
Sheila Lovatt had learned patience because the alternative was unthinkable.

The room smelled faintly of lily of the valley and urine and Helen Sewell was asleep. She slept on her side, her expression
serene, her left arm encased in flowered flannelette lay on the duvet, the thumb of her right hand touched her bloodless lips.
Sheila stood there for a few seconds watching her.

The first thing she had to do was disturb Helen’s slumbers in order to take her to the toilet before washing and dressing
her. She was about to touch the woman’s shoulder when something caught her eye.

A book lay on the floor; the old-fashioned kind of scrapbook that people used for keeping souvenirs: postcards, rail tickets,
invitations. Sheila bent to pick it up and saw that it contained newspaper cuttings. Suddenly interested, she began to turn
the pages and she recognised the name that appeared on the yellowed scraps of newsprint.

It wasn’t a name that she’d given any thought to for almost thirty years but she knew it all right. A terrible case. A poor
child abducted, never to be seen again. Marcus Fallbrook.

She wondered why Helen Sewell had gone to the trouble of cutting the reports of his kidnapping out of the paper and pasting
them in a book at the time when the case was in all the papers. It was a mystery. And she knew there was no point asking Helen
– she had probably forgotten why she’d done it herself.

Sheila flicked through the pages. Sure enough, they were all about little Marcus’s disappearance. No other story featured
in this sad tattered book. Poor mite, she thought as she stared at the little boy’s face. He reminded her a little of her
grandson and the thought made her shudder as she placed the scrapbook on the chest of drawers.

‘He’s my little boy.’

The sound of Helen’s quivering voice made Sheila jump.

‘Have you seen him? Do you know where he is?’

Sheila shook her head. Helen was back in the past . . . in the time little Marcus had disappeared. But for people like Helen,
this was normal. The past was more real than the present.

‘Now, dear, it’s time we got dressed, isn’t it,’ said Sheila soothingly.

‘Are you here to look for him?’ Helen asked, raising herself on her pillows and staring into the middle distance. ‘We’ve got
to look for him. We’ve got to find Marcus.’

Wesley Peterson had been exhausted. And even though Pam felt a stab of irritation when he had fallen asleep on the sofa instead
of listening to her account of the problems she was facing with her new class – at least three of whom had behavioural difficulties
– she had controlled her tongue.

She had heard about Leah Wakefield – the whole world knew about it by now. The press hadn’t been kind to the police. According
to the papers, they had failed to protect Leah. She noticed how they always blamed everyone except the bastard who actually
killed her. Wesley had taken the criticism philosophically . . . which is more than she would have done. She found herself
feeling angry on his behalf.

He went off to work early the next morning because he had a lot to do before attending Leah Wakefield’s postmortem – something
he wasn’t exactly looking forward to.

When he arrived in the office he found Rachel deep in conversation with a young man whose face was familiar, but it took Wesley
a few moments to place him – Tim from Scientific Support was leaning over Rachel’s desk, sharing a joke. As Wesley watched
them he realised that at one time he would have felt a twinge of envy. But he’d put all that behind him. If Rachel had met
someone she liked, he wished her luck.

After checking his messages he made straight for Gerry Heffernan’s office. If they were to catch Leah Wakefield’s killer,
they couldn’t afford to waste time.

Heffernan looked up as he entered the room. He looked as tired as Wesley felt. There were dark rings beneath his eyes and
his shirt was unironed as though he had dressed in the dark. He greeted Wesley with a weary ‘hi’ and pushed himself out of
his swivel chair with considerable effort, like an old man with arthritic joints. ‘I suppose I’d better muster the troops.’

Wesley looked at his watch. ‘Colin’s expecting us at the mortuary in an hour.’

The reminder that time was passing seemed to spur the chief
inspector into action. He gathered his team for their morning briefing and, once the day’s enquiries and interviews were
allocated and a team of uniformed officers sent out in search of possible sites where Leah had been held before her death,
Wesley knew that it was time to face the trip to the mortuary. After the postmortem they planned to travel up to Clevedon
to see Jenny Booker’s family. It was an interview he and Heffernan were keeping for themselves. They both had an inkling,
a nagging suspicion, that Jenny might be the key to the whole matter. But how and why, they didn’t yet know.

When they arrived at the mortuary they walked through the polished corridors, scented with air freshener to banish the odour
of death and formaldehyde, and Colin Bowman greeted them with a cup of Darjeeling and his usual high quality, organic biscuits.

Once the social niceties had been observed he led the way to the postmortem room where Leah Wakefield, small and naked, awaited
them on a stainless steel table. Wesley could hardly bare to look as Colin’s scalpel penetrated her ivory flesh. She looked
almost like the child she had been before she had began her precocious career and encountered the darker side of rock music
– although Colin was quick to point out that she was no virgin and that, in his opinion, she’d undergone a fairly recent abortion.

Her last meal had been soup. Vegetable. And crisps. Washed down with lemonade. Hardly cordon bleu but enough to keep body
and soul together. Marks on her wrists and ankles suggested that she had been bound with rope during her captivity and it
was almost impossible to know whether her head injury was caused by a fall against a hard object or a blow. But one thing
was certain; it had been the head injury that had killed her. She had been dead before she entered the water.

Once the postmortem was over, Gerry Heffernan refused Colin’s customary offer of refreshment. He was eager to get away from
the hospital, walking purposefully like a man with something on his mind. But it wasn’t until they were back at the station
that he told Wesley what that something was.

Before they confronted Jenny’s family he wanted to speak to Marcus Fallbrook again to see if he’d managed to remember any
more about Jenny and Gordon Heather. He guessed that Carol Fallbrook was probably sick of having the police turning up
almost daily on her doorstep. But it was necessary so she’d just have to get used to it.

They were about to leave when Steve Carstairs, the phone receiver cradled to his ear, began to gesticulate to attract their
attention. Heffernan halted. Whatever it was might be important – or not as the case may be. Steve’s judgement wasn’t always
razor sharp.

Steve put the receiver down, his eyes shining with juicy news. ‘A witness saw a black Porsche waiting in the car park near
the centre of Derenham village on the night Leah Wakefield was kidnapped. There was a man sitting in it and he matches Brad
Williams’s description. He got out and leaned on the car as if he was waiting for someone.

‘Who’s the witness?’ Wesley asked.

‘Teenage lad who’d been hanging around the phone box. He likes cars and he noticed the number plate – BRAO only the O looked
like a D. BRAD.’

Heffernan scratched his head. ‘Wasn’t Williams supposed to be in London when she went missing?’

‘That’s what he said,’ Wesley replied. ‘Is this lad sure he’d got the right night?’

Steve nodded. ‘It was youth club night. He’s sure. And that’s not all. We’ve had Leah’s mobile phone records back. She rang
Brad Williams’s mobile on the night she disappeared. He didn’t mention that to us, did he?’

‘I think we better have another word with Mr Williams.’

Rachel had already gone over to the Wakefield house to tell them the findings of the postmortem – someone had to do it. Wesley
rang her to say that they were on their way.

Wesley didn’t trust Brad Williams. He knew more than he’d admitted so far, he was certain of that. Knowledge was power and
the Brad Williams of this world kept back information as a matter of principle. But he had been in Derenham on the night of
Leah’s abduction and she had called him. That made him a suspect.

They found him at the Wakefields’, at the house of mourning where he seemed to have assumed the role of guardian at the gate.
Wesley had wondered whether he would lose interest in the Wakefields now that the goose who’d laid the golden eggs that paid
for his Porsche and penthouse was well and truly dead. But he hadn’t taken into consideration the morbid sentimentality of
the public. A tragic death at a young age did wonders for the brand – James Dean, Elvis, Princess Diana all proved this point.
Leah’s latest album was already shooting up the charts. And the Wakefields had to be kept onside if he was to take full advantage
of this grim harvest.

Brad Williams was reluctant to let them in at first. ‘This is the last thing they need,’ he said when he saw them on the doorstep.
‘Can’t you leave them alone?’

‘We haven’t come to talk to Mr and Mrs Wakefield. We’ve come to see you.’

He took a step forward, his body language aggressive. ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

But Gerry Heffernan stood his ground and after a few seconds Williams led them to a small study near the front of the house.
They could hear the TV blaring in a distant room and Wesley visualised the Wakefields sitting, stupefied, in front of the
moving images on the screen, trying to blot out the pain in any way they could.

Wesley came straight to the point. ‘You were seen in Derenham on the night Leah was kidnapped. You told us you were in London.’
He watched the man’s face for a reaction.

Williams took a deep breath. ‘OK. I admit I was here. I’d arranged to meet Leah but she never turned up.’

‘Why did you arrange to meet her?’

There was a long silence, as though he was deciding how much to tell them. ‘OK,’ he said, slumping down in the deep leather
chair that stood by the desk. ‘It’s ironic really. We were going to stage a kidnapping . . . for publicity. We all need publicity
. . . to be kept in the public eye. We wanted to hit the headlines for a few days. Raise her profile.’

‘So you kidnapped her and it all went wrong. She had an accident – a fall maybe – and . . . ’

‘No, no, no.’ Williams shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s not true. She rang to say she was on her way but she never turned
up. I never saw her. And when I tried to ring her mobile, it was switched off.’ He looked Wesley in the eye. ‘When I realised
it had happened for real, I played it safe and called you lot in . . . went along with the news blackout like you asked.’

‘The Wakefields were in on it?’

Another silence. ‘No. We thought it was best to keep them in
the dark. If the truth were known, we didn’t trust their acting abilities.’

‘So if your plan had worked you intended to report her kidnapping to the police for maximum publicity?’ Heffernan asked ominously.
‘And it would have been all over the papers.’

Williams looked sheepish and nodded.

The DCI put his face close to Williams’s and the man backed away instinctively. ‘I could do you for wasting police time.’

‘But I didn’t, did I?’ Williams snapped, on the defensive. ‘It never happened.’

‘That’s your story,’ growled Heffernan. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he added as they left the room. It was a threat, not a promise.

‘What do you think?’ Heffernan asked as they walked to the car.

‘I think he’s telling the truth.’

‘I don’t.’

They got into the car and drove the short distance to Mirabilis. It was time they had another word with Marcus Fallbrook.

Carol Fallbrook sat upright on the sofa and stared at her newly acquired brother-in-law. Adrian had insisted that Marcus transfer
his things from his Tradmouth guesthouse to one of their spare bedrooms – the actual room he had occupied as a child: Adrian
had thought this was a nice touch; a gesture to welcome him; make him feel at home. Marcus’s battered red Nissan sat outside
on their gravel drive next to Adrian’s new Range Rover and her six month old black VW Golf – a thorn between two motoring
roses.