The Shining Skull (23 page)

Wesley was just reading an account of a visit to the cinema with Gordon Heather when Gerry Heffernan spoke. ‘Here, Wes, look
at this.’ He thrust a letter into Wesley’s hand. ‘What do you think?’

Wesley read the letter and looked up. It was a cheerful letter, full of chat about her charge, Marcus, whom she clearly adored.
There were sections about his achievements at school, the things he said. She even wrote that she’d spotted a child who looked
so like Marcus that they could have been twins. The girl was obviously devoted to the little boy. Perhaps as devoted as a
mother.

‘Somehow she doesn’t strike me as the sort of girl who’d go along with a plan to kidnap the kid she was supposed to be looking
after. What do you think?’

Wesley shrugged. A nagging inner voice told him that he had to agree with Gerry Heffernan’s assessment. Jenny Booker wrote
so fondly of little Marcus, in her letters home. She told her mother of their outings together; of his little foibles. And
behind the loving words Wesley could detect veiled criticism of Marcus’s mother, Anna Fallbrook. She seemed, according to
Jenny, to take little interest in her son’s day-to-day life: that was the preserve of the paid nanny. And there was something
else.

Wesley re-examined the letter in his hand. ‘They’re a strange family, not at all like you and Dad. Mrs Fallbrook – she likes
me to call her Anna – spends a lot of her time painting and when she’s in her studio she mustn’t be disturbed. I felt sorry
for Marcus the
other day: he’d just got back from school and he really wanted to show her some work he’d done – he’d got ten out of ten
and he was really excited. Anyway, he ran over to the studio to show his mum his book but she just shouted at him to go away
. . . really bawled him out. The poor little thing was in tears and I did my best to cheer him up. I sometimes wonder if people
like that should have children. Marcus is such a nice little thing – I don’t know how she can treat him like that. Mr Fallbrook’s
not much better. He took Marcus on the boat and just ignored him and he was clinging to the rail terrified. Then he shouted
at me to go and see to Marcus and I had to take him ashore and calm him down. Then yesterday I was in the garden and I saw
a woman walking through the trees by the river. I’ve seen her before a few times but I don’t know who she is. I know Mr Fallbrook
had been down there messing with the boat so she must have been with him. But I shouldn’t really say anything, should I? How
the other half live, eh.’

He turned and put the letter down on the dressing table. He was starting to like Jenny Booker. She sounded kind; a gentle
girl thrust into an unfamiliar world where parents gave their children everything . . . apart from love. He was getting a
different picture of the Fallbrooks as well. Jenny painted a picture of a selfish pair, preoccupied with their own affairs.
He found himself wondering who the woman walking through the trees had been and why Jenny mentioned that she’d seen her before.
Had the woman been involved with Jacob Fallbrook perhaps? Had they had an assignation down by the river? Or maybe the whole
thing was innocent and Jenny had just had a vivid imagination.

Gerry Heffernan passed him another letter. He took it and read it. ‘Gordon took me to a strange place at the weekend. Howsands
was a village that had been washed into the sea years ago. There are still a few abandoned houses standing on the cliff top
but it’s far too dangerous to get to them. There was one house that had half fallen over the cliff already and you could see
the rooms inside . . . the wallpaper and the fireplaces. It was really weird. Gordon says there was a church in the village
but it’s already gone. He says that when the churchyard was falling into the sea you could see the skeletons tumbling off
the cliff. I told him to shut up. I used to like Gordon but now I’m getting a bit fed up. The things he’s interested in make
me uncomfortable and I’m thinking of finishing it. I think it’s cooling off anyway so I hope he won’t
take it too hard. He says he’ll meet me for a picnic on Thursday while Marcus is at school. Perhaps I’ll tell him then. What
do you think, Mum? I feel bad about hurting him but I think it’ll be for the best. If it’s not right, it’s not right.’

Wesley handed the letter to Heffernan. ‘This is dated a few days before Marcus’s abduction. He went missing on the Thursday.
She mentions meeting Gordon but she says Marcus’ll be at school. No mention of him coming to the picnic.’

‘Maybe Gordon suggested they take him out of school . . . give him a treat.’

Wesley shook his head. ‘She was going to tell Gordon it was over. She’d hardly want the kid around. And besides, I can’t see
Jenny taking him out of school unofficially. Perhaps I’m wrong but Jenny Booker sounds like the sort who’d do things by the
book. Mind you, Gordon’s statement saying him and Jenny were looking at engagement rings hardly holds up if she was planning
to finish with him.’

Heffernan sighed. ‘You know what, Wes, I think you’re right. I’ve read these and Jenny sounds more like Mary Poppins than
the Nanny from Hell. She disapproved of the way the Fallbrooks were treating their kid and she was going to end her relationship
with Gordon Heather . . . which puts paid to the theory that he had her in his power. And he hardly sounds like an evil genius
either. Have we got this all wrong, Wes?’

Wesley shrugged. He didn’t know what to think any more.

They drove back to Tradmouth. This time there was an accident on the motorway and the journey took them three hours.

Helen Sewell was dead. She’d died peacefully in her room at Sedan House at four forty-five or thereabouts. Sheila had found
her slumped in her chair, her eyes closed, her head bowed over her chest. Sheila had become used to death – peaceful death:
falling asleep and never waking up sort of death – and when she looked at Helen Sewell, she knew that her time had come. Helen’s
sleep was of the permanent kind.

The doctor had been called – discreetly of course – and he had pronounced life extinct, diagnosing a stroke from the appearance
of Helen’s mouth which had been dragged down at one corner by some invisible force, contorting her still, ash-pale face.

When the body had been whisked away by the undertakers,
Sheila stood in the middle of Helen’s room and felt a great wave of sadness overwhelming her. She always felt like this when
a resident passed away, even though she would never have claimed to have known Helen intimately. And she certainly knew nothing
of her life before she came to Sedan House.

She suddenly remembered the scrapbook she’d seen. It wasn’t by the bed so, presumably, Helen had put it away. Sheila walked
over to the chest of drawers and began to search.

It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for, hidden underneath Helen’s underwear in the top drawer. She turned the
pages, reading the cuttings more thoroughly this time. Every one was about Marcus Fallbrook’s abduction. Helen must have been
obsessed with the case, she thought. Either that or she had some personal interest. Maybe she’d worked for the Fallbrook family
at one time. Sheila knew nothing about Helen’s life so anything was possible.

She went through the book until she came to a picture: the blurred black and white image that had featured on most front pages
in the country back in June 1976. Little Marcus Fallbrook standing proudly in his school uniform against a background of leafy
rhododendron bushes in full bloom.

She stared at the picture for a few moments before closing the scrapbook and shoving it back in the drawer.

The new resident, Mrs Barnes, had a daughter who was friendly with a chief inspector from Tradmouth. Joyce was a nice, chatty
woman and her relationship with this representative of law and order had cropped up in conversation several times. Maybe she
could have a word with her that evening when she made her daily visit . . . see what she thought.

At seven o’clock Rachel Tracey made her first phone call. Somehow she hadn’t been able to face an evening doing nothing so,
after consulting Trish, she’d decided on action. And if she was the one to catch the Barber, it would do her career no harm
whatsoever.

She put on her coat and waited for the first cab of the evening to turn up. Trish had already settled down to watch TV and
they had agreed that Rachel would keep her informed of her whereabouts at all times. And if anything untoward happened, she
would call for back-up right away. Rachel didn’t intend to take any chances . . . with her life or her hair.

As she waited, she closed her eyes and thought of Tim. But she realised that she knew very little about him. During their
conversations, it had been her who had done most of the talking, telling him about the cottage she was sharing with Trish
and the problems of moving away from home for the first time. Perhaps she should have done less talking and more listening,
she thought, cursing herself for her stupidity. Tim was nice. So was Wesley Peterson, but he was married and she had long
given up hope in that direction. Sooner or later her love life had to look up. Up till now, it had been a sorry catalogue
of failure and longing for the unattainable.

She heard a car horn outside. The show had begun. It might be a fruitless exercise but at least she was doing something. And
Gerry Heffernan had thought it was a good idea.

Rachel hadn’t really taken much notice of minicab drivers before but now, sitting in the back seats of a series of shabby
saloon cars, she paid them particular attention.

Dressed respectably in jeans and an anorak to avoid any unwanted attention that might distract her from her goal, she booked
cabs to and from her cottage to the centre of Tradmouth, using a pub just round the corner from the police station as a base.
This pointless shuttle service had lost its air of possibility and excitement by the fifth ride of the evening.

The journeys were uneventful and the drivers seemed to fall into two categories; chatty or morose. But there were none who
made her inner alarm bells ring.

The sixth journey, however, was different. A couple of minutes after she’d made the call to the last taxi firm on her list,
a dark-blue Ford Mondeo, turned up, driving slowly like a kerb crawler looking for business. It was ten thirty and the streets
were quiet which sharpened Rachel’s sense of danger as she stood there, a young blonde woman alone outside a pub, obviously
waiting for something. The cab rolled up slowly and the driver seemed to study her before braking and reversing back down
the road towards her. He was clean shaven with bushy eyebrows, glasses, a baseball cap and a face that seemed rather plumper
than the photo fits provided by the Barber’s victims. He wound down the window.

‘Cab for Tracey?’ The words seemed a little muffled as though the man was chewing . . . but Rachel could see no ruminatory
movement of his jaws.

‘Yeah,’ said Rachel, opening the back door. She got in, gave her address along with brief directions and the driver set off
at speed, the force sending Rachel sprawling across the back seat. At last this was it. Her heart began to pound with excitement
as she righted herself and sat there, preparing for fight or flight. She pushed the button on her mobile phone that would
summon help and held it by her side so the driver wouldn’t realise what she was doing.

‘Where are we now?’ she asked in a clear voice so she could be heard at the other end of the phone line. ‘Oh I know, we’re
just passing the naval college, aren’t we?’ She kept up the commentary, hoping that the driver would mistake it for chattiness.
‘I think you’ve come too far. That’s the Sportsman’s Arms on our right, isn’t it? This isn’t the way, you know. You’re turning
down the road to Derenham. You’ve got to go back.’

The man drove, silent, as though he hadn’t heard.

‘This is the crossroads. You can turn right to Hatbourne and get back on the main road. Don’t go straight on. You’re taking
us right out of our way. We must only be a mile and a half from Derenham. Why are you stopping?’

She looked at the phone. It was lit up. As arranged, the officer on the other end was listening. She only hoped he or she
hadn’t fallen asleep. She hoped help had been summoned. She felt in her pocket and fingered the handcuffs. At least, unlike
the other victims, she was prepared. She tried the door but the child locks were on and for a split second she experienced
a wave of panic, like a trapped animal discovering that there was no escape.

The driver had got out and was making his way round the car. There was something about the way he walked, the way he stared
ahead like an automaton that made her afraid. When he opened the door she looked him in the eye and said nothing. She could
see the glint of metal in his hand. Scissors or a knife – she hoped it was the former: the last thing she wanted was to be
expecting the Barber and getting a crazed rapist instead. He was reaching in, stroking her hair. But instead of backing away
as he expected, she summoned all her courage and leaned towards him.

‘I’ll get out, shall I?’

This seemed to stop him in his tracks. He froze.

‘If you want my hair it’ll be easier if I get out of the car. It is my hair you want?’

He hesitated before nodding, like a child asked whether he wanted a treat, and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t
miscalculated.

She closed her eyes. This was it. She could feel the warmth of his body near her. He took her shoulders gently and turned
her round, raising the hand holding the scissors.

He caressed her hair for a few seconds before taking a strand between his fingers and rising the scissors. She heard a snipping
sound. Then the crinkling of a plastic bag. He was putting the hair carefully into a bag. Then he put his mouth close to her
ear. ‘Keep still. I won’t hurt you,’ he whispered. She could feel his hot breath on her face as he gasped like a lover. He
pressed his body hard against her and her heart lurched. What if he wanted more than her hair? She stiffened, her heart pounding,
her hands numb with fear.

Then she heard the sound of a patrol car in full cry. Distant at first but getting nearer. Closing in.