The Shining Skull (22 page)

‘We need to find out everything we can about her and her connection with Gordon Heather.’ He looked at Rachel shyly. ‘How
are you getting on with Tim?’

Rachel’s cheeks turned red. ‘Who told you?’

‘Nobody told me. I just saw you talking to him earlier, that’s all.’

Rachel turned away. ‘I’d better get back.’

‘Any progress on the Barber enquiry?’

She turned around. ‘I’ve had an idea. I seem to be the type he goes for so why don’t I act as bait? I don’t mind spending
a couple of evenings ringing round local taxis as long as I can get it all on expenses and, who knows, I might strike lucky.’

Wesley stared at her for a few moments. He couldn’t fault her logic but a slight feeling of unease nagged in the back of his
brain. ‘We’ll have to make sure you’ve got enough back up . . . that you’re not put at risk.’

‘You’ve never been a risk-taker, have you Wesley?’ she said softly, eyeing the files and papers arranged with almost military
precision on his desk and the neatly written list which lay near his hand.

‘That’s how I manage to stay out of trouble.’

‘So you’ll ask the boss?’ She grinned. ‘And if I know Gerry Heffernan, the answer’ll be yes.’

She was right, of course. Gerry Heffernan would think it was a great idea to use Rachel to lure the Barber into a trap – in
fact he had suggested it a few days earlier. But as he watched Rachel walk away, Wesley wasn’t so sure.

No sooner had he thought of the DCI than he appeared, grinning, at the office door, his shabby anorak over his arm, anxious
to be off.

Wesley stood up, mentally preparing himself for a two hour drive up the M5. At least it wasn’t in the main tourist season
which meant, barring accidents or road works, they shouldn’t face too many delays.

Marcus Fallbrook’s face was solemn as he entered the sitting room. Carol looked up. Something was wrong.

He slumped down in the armchair opposite her. ‘What time’s Adrian home?’ He sounded worried, distracted.

Carol looked at her watch. ‘Not till late. He said he had things to see to at the Morbay office.’

Marcus put his head in his hands. ‘I wanted to see him before I left.’

‘You’re leaving today?’ She tried her best to keep the elation out of her voice.

‘I’ve just had a call on my mobile. It’s was from Sharon, my girlfriend. She’s been taken into hospital in Manchester, suspected
appendicitis. She wants me to go up. And anyway, I’ve got loads of stuff to sort out if I’m moving down here for good so it’ll
give me a chance to get things organised.’ He looked up at her and smiled awkwardly. ‘Look, Carol . . . er . . . thanks for
everything. It can’t have been easy for you having me landing on your doorstep like that.’

Carol made polite noises of denial. Faced with this barrage of apologetic charm, it was hard to be churlish.

‘I’d better pack then.’ He stood up and began to move towards the door. Then he stopped suddenly and swung round. ‘If the
police want to see me, tell ’em I won’t be away for long . . . just a few days probably.’

‘OK,’ said Carol with the best grace she could muster.

It would have suited her fine if her newly found brother-in-law never returned. But she knew he’d be back and probably with
Sharon – who would no doubt turn out to be a bottle blonde in a denim miniskirt – in tow.

Who was it said you can choose your friends but you’re lumbered with your family?

The motorway was clear. The powers that be, in their wisdom, must have decided to give the motorist a temporary respite from
the agony of road works and the traffic jams they spawned. Unexpectedly, Wesley enjoyed the drive. With the pressure of the
Leah Wakefield investigation, he was glad of a change of scene, however brief. And there was always a chance that Jenny Booker’s
family might be able to given them some clue as to Gordon Heather’s whereabouts.

Gerry Heffernan sprawled in the passenger seat, his eyes closed as though he were asleep. Wesley was surprised when he spoke.
‘Does any of it make sense to you?’

Wesley kept his eyes on the road as he pondered the question. ‘How do you mean?’

‘A rich kid was abducted in 1976. There was a ransom demand
and the money was picked up but the kid was never returned. The kidnapper abandoned him somewhere in the wilds.’

‘Maybe something went wrong and the kidnapper panicked. Or he thought that if he’d left him somewhere close to home, he’d
be caught. Or perhaps the message saying where he could be found went astray somehow and the Fallbrooks never received it.’

‘Possibly. Then the kid turns up again after thirty years saying he was taken in by some New Age travellers who went across
to Ireland. Never an easy lot to pin down, New Age travellers. They’ll be dispersed to the four winds by now so they’re no
good as witnesses.’

‘True. However, one of them – Carrie – came back to England and dumped the kid with a woman in Manchester called Aunty Lynne
before going off on her merry way. Wonder how she explained away the fact that she suddenly had a kid in tow?’

Heffernan shrugged. ‘With these New Age traveller types it wouldn’t surprise me if there were quite a few random children
wandering about. And they’d hardly go to the authorities if they found an extra one, would they?’

‘And they’d be unlikely to listen to the news or read the papers so they wouldn’t realise the whole country was looking for
Marcus Fallbrook.’

‘He said they went to Ireland soon after they picked him up anyway. What do you think of our Marcus? Think he’s on the level?’

‘Seems to be. And he is who he says he is. The DNA test has proved that beyond any doubt. He went to see Linda Tranter, you
know – said he wanted to find out more about his mother.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘And his story about the accident in Manchester all checks out . . . as does the address he gave. And the existence of Aunty
Lynne: there was definitely a Lynne Jones at that address and, according to official records, she died six months ago just
like he said. He left a message to say he was going back to Manchester for a while . . . something to do with his girlfriend.’

‘So that’s that. And he’s pointing the finger at Gordon Heather so it looks like he’s probably responsible for Leah Wakefield’s
murder and all. Same MO. Only this time he got greedy. Something went wrong and the girl ended up dead.’

Wesley smiled. ‘Teddy Afleck saw him in Neston recently so he’s around somewhere.’

‘Unless he’s already done a runner,’ said Heffernan pessimistically. ‘And I don’t see how Afleck could have been so certain
it was him after all these years . . . not if he just saw him in a car. It might have been someone who just looked like him.
Or Afleck was lying.’

Wesley didn’t answer. He preferred to look on the bright side for the moment until the investigation proved him wrong. They
were nearing the Clevedon turn-off. He indicated and pulled off the motorway.

Jenny Booker’s parents lived near the waterfront. Wesley, who had never been to Clevedon before, drove slowly, taking in his
surroundings. It was a pleasant seaside town, slightly old-fashioned: the sort of place young people leave in search of excitement
and the retired flock to in their droves. Jenny Booker had left but her adventure had been her downfall – she had ended up
drowning herself.

Wesley drove along the promenade and parked to examine a map. Gerry Heffernan decided to get out of the car and stretch his
legs and, after getting his bearings, Wesley did likewise. As the two men strolled towards the entrance to the elegant Victorian
pier which stretched out to sea on slender legs, they looked out over the muddy brown waters of the Bristol Channel.

‘Let’s leave the car here and walk it,’ Wesley suggested, hoping for a bit of exercise after two hours spent in the driving
seat.

Heffernan seemed content to follow where Wesley led, which was up a side road and to the front door of a Victorian villa.
Jenny Booker’s childhood home looked solid, respectable. And the young nanny’s family clearly weren’t short of money themselves;
although they probably weren’t in the same elevated financial bracket as the Fallbrooks.

They were expected, that much was clear from the speed with which Mrs Booker answered the front door. She had been waiting
for them.

The first thing Wesley and Heffernan noticed about Jenny Booker’s mother was her monochrome appearance. Her hair was dark
grey and so where her clothes. Even her pale flesh had a grey tinge, as though the colour had drained from her life many years
ago.

Wesley made the introductions as they were invited in. Mrs Booker seemed nervous. But Wesley thought this was hardly
surprising. Their visit must have brought back painful memories. But then those memories had probably never really gone away.
He had read the inquest findings. Jenny had been depressed for a while and she had gone out one evening without saying where
she was going. Her parents had reported her missing and the next day her body had been washed up on the seafront. They had
never recovered from their loss. Nobody could ever recover from something like that.

Why had Jenny Booker taken such a drastic step? The more Wesley thought about it, the more it seemed likely that she had been
unable to live with the guilt that must have consumed her. And she would hardly have felt guilty unless she had been involved
in some way – even if that involvement had been indirect, such as bringing the kidnapper into little Marcus’s life.

They were led into a living room which, on first impression, looked dark and cramped. It wasn’t until Wesley looked around
that he realised the room was quite spacious: it was only the dark red walls, the highly patterned carpet and the almost Victorian
level of clutter that made it appear smaller than it really was. A tall thin man was sitting on the edge of the large velour
sofa and he stood up as his wife brought the visitors into the room. He smiled too much as though he was anxious to please.

‘We’re sorry to bother you like this,’ Gerry Heffernan began. ‘But I think I explained on the phone that . . . ’ He searched
for the words but none came out.

Wesley took over. ‘There have been some developments in the case Jenny was involved in . . . the abduction of Marcus Fallbrook.’
He paused. Mr and Mrs Booker were sitting close together side by side, quite still, hanging on his every word. He felt suddenly
overwhelmed with the responsibility. ‘Marcus is still alive,’ he said softly. ‘The abductor abandoned him and he couldn’t
find his way back home. He was found by some travellers and taken to Ireland.’ He could almost read their minds. If the child
had been alive, there had been no reason for Jenny to take her own life out of remorse. She had died for nothing. Mr Booker’s
hand searched for his wife’s and clutched it tight.

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘You might have heard about Leah Wakefield . . . .’

‘It’s been on the news,’ Mr Booker said quickly.

Heffernan gave Wesley a nudge. It was his turn to speak. ‘We
have reason to believe the two abductions could be linked. We’ve talked to Marcus Fallbrook and we’re anxious to trace a
man called Gordon Heather. He used to be, er . . . a friend of your daughter’s.’

‘We met him once,’ said Mr Booker, giving his wife a sidelong glance. ‘Can’t say I liked him much. Don’t ask me why; it was
nothing you could put your finger on.’

‘You wouldn’t have a photograph of him by any chance, would you?’

Mrs Booker thought for a few moments and shook her head.

‘What was he like?’

She looked at her husband. ‘I thought he was a bit odd. Didn’t you, dear? He was interested in . . . Oh I’m not sure if you’d
call it the occult but something like that. Sorry, I didn’t really take much notice of what Jenny said about it. I just wished
she’d found herself someone more . . . ’

‘More what?’ Wesley sensed she was on the brink of a revelation.

Mrs Booker shook her head and a curtain of straight grey hair fell over her face. ‘More normal, I suppose. We just met him
the once when we went down to visit her and I can’t say I took to him, did you, John?’

Mr Booker shook his head. ‘Wasn’t all there if you ask me. Jenny said he worked in a boatyard but he told me he was some sort
of historian . . . researching into something. No idea what. He didn’t make much sense. I asked Jenny what she saw in him
and she said she liked him because he was different. He wasn’t boring, she said. Well, she wasn’t wrong there, was she?’ he
added bitterly.

Heffernan nodded. His children had only just made the transition from teens to young adults. He understood only too well how
the siren appeal of the unsuitable friend or partner can turn the impressionable young away from the path of reason and common
sense. His kids had survived unscathed. Others weren’t so lucky.

‘You told us on the phone that you’d kept Jenny’s things.’ Wesley thought he might as well get straight to the point.

Mrs Booker stood up. ‘We’ve touched nothing in her room. Everything’s still as it was when . . . ’ Wesley and Heffernan looked
at each other. This was better than they’d expected. ‘The letters she sent us are all up there as well. You’re welcome to
have a look at them but . . . ’

Wesley told her not to worry; they’d do their best to leave everything as they found it. He was only too aware that their
daughter’s bedroom would have become a shrine to her memory, even after thirty years, and that the situation needed sensitive
handling.

They were shown to the room and then left alone, much to their relief. Jenny Booker’s room was neat and tidy. A towelling
dressing gown hung behind the door and the dressing table was laden with the usual trappings of a young woman’s life; make-up
and perfume and a few items of cheap jewellery. The thing Wesley found most disturbing was the sight of the red cotton dress
laid across the single bed as though its owner had popped down the landing to the bathroom and would return in a few minutes
to change her clothes.

Jenny’s letters were in the top drawer of the dressing table. She had written in a round, almost childlike hand and her letters
were chatty, informal and easy to read.