The Shining Skull (24 page)

The Barber froze as if he didn’t know what to do, torn between finishing his self appointed task and making his escape. Suddenly
Rachel swung round, catching him off balance. She grabbed his wrist and deftly twisted his arm up his back, pulling the handcuffs
from her coat pocket with her free hand. He began to struggle but she held on. But with each movement she was losing her grip
on the situation.

‘I’m DS Tracey, Tradmouth CID, and you’re nicked,’ she said, aware that the words sounded feeble. He was almost free.

As she clung on, the patrol car came into view. And as she grabbed at the back of his jacket, the fight seemed to go out of
him. When at last a trio of uniformed constables relieved her of her responsibility, she sank breathless to the ground.

The man said nothing as the handcuffs went on. Staring at Rachel, he spat what looked like wads of cotton wool out of his
mouth onto the ground and his face immediately took on another shape. He looked thinner. And Rachel thought there was something
familiar about him although she couldn’t tell what it was.

As the Barber was pushed into the patrol car, his eyes met hers again and she shuddered, tears pricking her eyes.

Letter from Elizabeth Bentham to Letitia Corly, 28th February 1816

My dear Letitia,

Was not Mrs Shiner’s last meeting at the inn most wondrous? Though I was most afraid when the Blessed Joan prophesied that
Cain would rear his head and there would be death and deception. Of all the prophesies she made, this seemed the most urgent,
do you not think? Her Shining Babe must be due at any time and I have been chosen to attend the birth and the opening of her
wondrous box. Oh how I am truly honoured and blessed.

One strange thing happened yesterday that I must tell you of. Our steward came to my brother, Sir John, with a tale that Joseph
Hackworthy, our carpenter, was drunk and had near broke the head of a carter who remonstrated with him. He is eaten with some
sickness of the soul and has been seen tearing down bills announcing his young brother Peter’s performances. It is most strange.

My sister-in-law, Juanita, nears her time and Sir John prays that the child will be a boy.

Do you attend Mrs Shiner’s next meeting on Wednesday? It may be the last before the Shining Babe is born.

Your affectionate friend, Elizabeth Bentham

The Barber had spent the night in one of the cells in the bowels of Tradmouth police station but the experience, as far as
Wesley and Heffernan could tell, didn’t seem to have bothered him in the least. He sat opposite them in the interview room,
the tape running, smiling to himself as though he were enjoying some private joke.

Wesley knew that Rachel had been shaken by her ordeal but she was putting a brave face on it, moaning about the mess the prisoner
had made of her hair. Not that it looked much different to Wesley.

Gerry Heffernan had already said that he thought the man was a few ants short of a picnic but Wesley was inclined to be a
little more sympathetic. From what the custody sergeant had told him, it sounded as if the man had problems – some sort of
psychosis or obsessive disorder maybe. But, whether he was mad or simply bad, they had to get to the bottom of the affair.

The man they had been hunting for the past few weeks sat quite still in the white paper suit he had been given when his own
clothes had been taken away for forensic examination. His thin face still bore the remnants of a layer of theatrical make
up and one of the bushy eyebrows he had stuck on drooped drunkenly, giving him the look of an aging wild animal who had come
off worst in a fight for supremacy.

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘You terrified the life out of those poor women.’

‘They never came to any harm.’ He spoke pedantically, calmly.

‘You can’t say that. They’re traumatised . . . scared to go out of their houses. And what about the one you put in hospital?’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt her. And you can’t prove otherwise.’

Wesley looked him in the eye. There was something familiar about his face but he couldn’t tell what it was. They didn’t have
a name for their prisoner yet. So far he was refusing to reveal it. ‘You haven’t answered the chief inspector’s question.
Why did you want to cut their hair? What did you do with it? If you told us, we might understand.’

The gentleness of Wesley’s tone seemed to startle the Barber more than any bullying words could have done. He looked up at
Wesley. ‘It has to be made out of hair . . . fair hair. If it’s not ready . . . ’

‘If what’s not ready?’

‘The shawl.’

Wesley and Heffernan exchanged glances. ‘Whose shawl?’

‘I was told to send it.’

‘What?’

‘The hair.’

‘Who told you?’

The Barber looked around, as though he was afraid somebody might be eavesdropping. ‘A woman in California is carrying the
Shining Babe. It’s on the website.’ He swallowed. ‘You should read it.’

Wesley leaned forward. ‘So what have you got to do exactly? Collect the hair and send it to California? I don’t suppose you
have to send money as well do you?’

The man suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s just for her expenses.’

‘Whose expenses?’

‘The Prophetess Lindy . . . ’

Heffernan and Wesley looked at each other. ‘Lindy?’

‘She’s the Blessed Joan reincarnated. She has her sacred box. It contains the seven secrets of the universe.’

Heffernan mouthed something Wesley couldn’t quite make out but he decided to ignore him. This was getting more interesting
by the minute. ‘You’re talking about Joan Shiner?’

The answer was a nod.

‘She was around at the beginning of the nineteenth century, wasn’t she? How did you find out about her?’

The man’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you a believer yourself?’

Heffernan grunted. ‘Every heard the saying beware of false prophets?’he muttered under his breath. ‘How did you get sucked
in?’

The prisoner drew himself up to his full height. ‘I resent your attitude.’

Wesley put up a hand. ‘I’m sorry, let’s start again. Tell us how you found out about Joan Shiner.’

He looked at Wesley as though he’d found an ally. ‘I first heard about her when I lived round here years ago. Then when I
was in hospital up in Leeds . . . ’

‘What was wrong with you?’ Gerry Heffernan asked with what Wesley considered unnecessary brutality. The man obviously had
problems and his own chosen strategy was softly softly.

The prisoner swallowed hard. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘You’ve not got much choice, mate,’ said Heffernan brutally. ‘I’ll ask again. What was wrong with you?’

After a long silence the prisoner spoke. Quietly, almost inaudibly. ‘I’ve, er . . . had problems. Something happened and .
. . ’

Heffernan snorted but Wesley got in quickly to rescue the situation. ‘Tell us what happened.’

‘My girlfriend . . . she died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Wesley automatically. ‘You were telling us how you became interested in Joan Shiner.’ He tilted his head
to one side and waited.

‘Like I said, I heard about the Blessed Joan when I lived here and I was drawn to her. Did you know she was buried at Howsands
– I went there once but there was nothing to see. Her grave had been swallowed by the sea.’ He paused, a faraway look in his
eyes.

‘Go on,’ prompted Wesley gently.

‘I’ve been in and out of hospital a lot over the years and, about eighteen months back, one of the other patients had this
old book about the Blessed Joan and her prophesies and . . . I’d known about her before but this time her prophesies seemed
. . . really spoke to me. And when the box containing the seven secrets of the universe came into the possession of the Prophetess
Lindy, she started the website. As soon as I left hospital, I went on the internet in the library and typed Joan’s name in.
That’s how I found the Disciples’ website and . . . ’

Wesley nodded. He could just see the Prophetess Lindy, using the old story of Joan Shiner and her strange cult, preying on
the vulnerable like the man sitting there in front of him . . . no doubt getting them to send money. Some people, he thought,
should be locked up.

‘Why the disguises? How did you get hold of the theatrical make up? What gave you the idea of the bogus taxi?’

The prisoner smiled at his own cleverness. ‘Last time I was in hospital I read a book about a serial killer who used a different
disguise each time he killed. And he made his car look like a taxi . . . used false number plates and copied the signs of
local taxi firms. I copied the idea. Only I never killed anybody. Killing’s wrong. It’s a sin.’

‘Well at least we agree on something,’ Wesley said. ‘You were going to tell me about the make-up?’

‘I used to have a flat in Leeds. It was above a theatrical shop and when it closed down the manager said I could help myself
to anything I wanted. It was all there . . . greasepaint . . . false beards . . . .’ He gave a childish little chuckle as
if this part of his escapade had been rather fun. Then the smile suddenly disappeared. ‘The hair I collected . . . I can send
it, can’t I?’

Heffernan opened his mouth to speak but Wesley got in first.
‘We’ll have to see,’ he said gently. ‘We don’t know your name yet . . . or where you live. You wouldn’t tell the custody
sergeant . . . or the arresting officer, DS Tracey.’

‘She hurt me.’

Wesley decided to ignore the last comment. ‘What is your name? We’ll find out sooner or later, you know.’

The prisoner thought for a few moments. Then he pressed his lips together in stubborn defiance.

Then, to Gerry Heffernan’s surprise, Wesley took a photograph from a folder and laid it on the table in front of him. ‘Recognise
this? You were a lot younger then. How old would you say? Eighteen? Nineteen?’

Tears began to fill the prisoner’s eyes.

‘I know your name already,’ Wesley said in a low voice. ‘It’s Gordon Heather, isn’t it? And your girlfriend who died was called
Jenny Booker.’

Gerry Heffernan’s mouth fell open. He picked up the photograph and looked first at the man then at the image of the young
footballer.

‘Changed a bit, hasn’t he?’ Heffernan said as though the prisoner couldn’t hear him.

‘Times change,’ was Wesley’s soft reply.

‘So we’re going to let him stew for a bit?’ Wesley climbed into the driver’s seat, wondering why Heffernan had cut the interview
with Gordon Heather short. He was their prime suspect after all; for the abduction of Marcus Fallbrook and the murder of Leah
Wakefield. The trouble was, now that he had met him, he found it hard to see him as Leah’s ruthless, calculating kidnapper.
Even Gerry had his doubts as to whether money featured much, if at all, in Heather’s strange inner world.

Heffernan nodded. ‘He’s been charged with the taxi abductions and with assault. He’ll keep.’

Paul Johnson and Trish Walton had gone to the address Heather had given – a run down bed-sit on the wrong side of Morbay.
There they’d found the victims’ blond hair, lovingly tied, ready for dispatch to California. There had also been a box filled
with theatrical make-up and various disguises, along with a computer. It all fitted with the story he gave. But there was
nothing in that sad little flat to connect Heather with the abduction of Leah Wakefield.

Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘It’s eleven already. We’ve been down there with Heather for two and a half hours. I’ve started
to wonder if he’s really as daft as he’s trying to make out. All this Shining Babe stuff might be an act . . . maybe he wants
to plead insanity.’

That possibility had occurred to Wesley. The Barber abductions had taken a great deal of planning. And Heather had admitted
himself that he took his MO from a book about a serial killer. Who was to say he didn’t emulate the plot in more ways than
one?

‘Perhaps he intended to do more to his victims than give them a haircut. Perhaps he chickened out at the crucial moment. Or
perhaps if he’d carried on, the violence would have escalated until he killed.’

‘Do you think he could have killed Leah Wakefield?’

‘He could certainly have abducted her. And as for killing her . . . If something went wrong or if he lost control, why not?’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘You could be right. And you’ve got to admit that he’s the best suspect we’ve got at the moment.
In fact, he’s our only suspect.’

‘Leah’s manager, Brad Williams – I reckon he’s still hiding something.’

‘Now you’re clutching at straws.’

Wesley started the engine. ‘So where are we’re going?’ Gerry Heffernan had been rather mysterious about his plans and Wesley
was curious.

‘Sedan House . . . the nursing home Joyce’s mum’s in. I had a call from Joyce before we started interviewing Heather. She
says it might be nothing but one of the nurses had a word with her last night. She’s a bit worried about something she found.’

‘What?’

‘Joyce didn’t say. But it’s something to do with an old lady who died yesterday.’

‘Suspicious death?’ That was all they needed.

‘Apparently not. But something was found in her room. Joyce said the nurse mentioned the name Marcus Fallbrook.’

Wesley said nothing. He started the car and the DCI sat back in the passenger seat, perfectly relaxed.

Neither man said much for the remainder of the journey. Wesley concentrated on the road while Gerry Heffernan admired the
view from the window; the fields, bare after the harvest or dotted with grazing cattle or sheep.

‘Are they expecting us?’ Wesley asked as he turned the car into the drive of Sedan House. The drive was lined with thick rhododendron
bushes which made the approach to the house dark and oppressive. Wesley didn’t really know what to expect when they got there.
But life is full of surprises.

They were met by Sheila, the care assistant who’d spoken to Joyce. She seemed to be a placid woman, plump and patient. She
didn’t strike Wesley as someone who’d let her imagination get the better of her.

‘I hope I’m not wasting your time,’ she said. ‘But it just seemed a bit strange, Helen having all that stuff about that little
boy’s kidnapping . . . and I read in the paper that you think it could have something to do with that Leah Wakefield’s murder
so I thought . . . ’

‘You did the right thing, love,’ was Heffernan’s reply as she led them along a thickly carpeted corridor to a door bearing
Helen Sewell’s name, written on a piece of card and secured with a pair of drawing pins . . . easily replaced.

‘Helen had Alzheimer’s,’ Sheila said matter-of-factly as she unlocked the door. ‘She’d been getting worse recently and she
started talking about a little boy. As far as we know she had no kids of her own but she kept asking where he was and started
asking for Marcus . . . asking women if they were his mother. It didn’t click until I saw the scrapbook that the Marcus she
was talking about was Marcus Fallbrook.’

She walked across the room, took the scrapbook out of the top drawer and handed it to Heffernan who began to flick through
it.

‘She was looking at it the morning before she passed away. I didn’t really know what to do and I knew you were a friend of
Mrs Barnes’s daughter so . . . ’