The Shining Skull (25 page)

Wesley and Heffernan exchanged looks. ‘You were right to let us know,’ Wesley said. ‘Thank you.’

Sheila looked at Heffernan slyly. ‘Joyce Barnes speaks very highly of you.’

Heffernan felt himself blushing. ‘Er, thanks . . . er, Sheila. We’ll just have a look through her stuff, if that’s OK.’

She took the hint and left them to it.

‘Nice woman,’ the DCI said to Wesley as he watched her disappear through the door.
Then he suddenly swung round. ‘Right. Let’s have a look, shall we.’

Helen Sewell’s room was neat and clean. Not a thing out of place, just how Wesley liked it. It made searching a place so much
easier if the occupier had a tidy mind.

Gerry Heffernan put the scrapbook on the bed and they began to search the room. In the wardrobe Wesley found a pack of official
documents at the back of the shelf above the clothes rail, wrapped in what looked like an old tablecloth.

They made themselves comfortable on the bed while they went through the papers. They learned that Helen Caroline Brice had
been born in Plymouth in 1936 and that she was a widow – her husband’s death certificate telling them that he’d died of a
heart attack in 1995 – and by the absence of birth certificates and photographs, they surmised that the marriage had been
childless.

With the official documents was a birthday card, yellowed with age, signed ‘your sister, Jacqueline’. There were no other
letters in the drawers or wardrobe so perhaps Jacqueline was dead. Or the sisters had simply lost touch.

Wesley called over to Gerry Heffernan who was sifting through a pile of bank statements he’d found in the bedside drawer.

‘She had a sister called Jacqueline.’

‘Mmm,’ Heffernan replied, not particularly interested. ‘The matron should have details of her next of kin.’ He thought for
a few moments. ‘You don’t think this woman, Helen, could have been one of them New Age travellers who picked Marcus up, do
you? What if she sent him to stay with her sister.’

‘Aunty Lynne? Jacqueline? It’s possible. And the birth certificate says that Helen’s middle name was Caroline . . . Carrie?
He said he was picked up by a Carrie.’

‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Wes.’

Gerry Heffernan opened another drawer and took out a framed photograph. Two women. Helen Sewell and another, younger, woman.
Between them sat a child aged around nine or ten. His heart began to race as he stared at the picture. ‘Hey, Wes. Do you reckon
this kid’s Marcus Fallbrook?’

Wesley took the picture from his boss’s hand and studied it. ‘It certainly looks like him. But on the other hand it’s not
a good picture. Maybe we’re clutching at straws, Gerry.’

‘Jacqueline . . . .Aunty Lynne?’

‘It would explain why Helen Sewell had the Fallbrook case on her mind. If it was something she never talked about – a secret
between her and her sister that had bothered her for years – the Alzheimer’s would have removed her inhibitions. First chance
we get we should talk to Marcus again. He might know if Aunty Lynne’s real name was Jacqueline.’

They left Helen Sewell’s room, shutting the door quietly behind them – it was a quiet sort of place.

Matron’s office was near the front door and, from the casual way they were greeted, the matron was used to death and used
to the police turning up on her doorstep.

The details of the residents’ next of kin were kept in a tall grey filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Matron, a tall,
angular woman with short dark hair, took out Helen’s file and placed it on the desk. Wesley opened it and discovered that
Helen’s next of kin was a Pauline Vine who lived in Tradmouth. There was no mention of her relationship to Helen.’

‘Did you know Helen Sewell had a sister?’

Matron raised her eyebrows. ‘No. There was never any mention of a sister.’

‘This Pauline Vine . . . ?’

‘She’s a cousin of Helen’s late husband . . . visited her about once a month.’

‘It looks as if the sister could be dead then.’

Matron smiled. ‘Or they haven’t spoken for years.’

With this cynical conclusion, they left. They had Pauline Vine’s address and they wanted a chat with her as soon as possible
. . . preferably over tea and biscuits. Wesley called Trish Walton on his mobile and asked her to give the woman a call.

With the photo of young Marcus and the two women safely in Wesley’s pocket, they left Sedan House. The place was getting them
down.

‘Could Helen have been Marcus’s kidnapper?’ asked Heffernan as they drove back to Tradmouth. ‘Is it possible?’

‘If Marcus Fallbrook’s kidnapper is the same person who killed Leah Wakefield, that rules out Helen Sewell. She’s been in
here all the time and she didn’t even know what day it was, never mind riding round on jet skis.’

‘Colin Bowman said that a woman could have done it.’

Wesley shook his head. He couldn’t see it somehow. But then stranger
things had been known to happen.

‘As soon as Marcus gets back we’ll show him this photo – ask
him if this is really him. And if it is, who he’s with. I want to know more about the women in his life.’

The woman who was waiting in reception for them on their return to the police station was almost as wide as she was tall.
Her lank grey hair was tied back with a sparkly hair slide of the sort Wesley had only seen before worn by teenage girls on
a night out. In her favour she had a pretty face with delicate features. She must once have been beautiful. But three score
years and a lifetime of overeating had put paid to all that.

The desk sergeant said something to her and she stood up.

‘Is it Chief Inspector Heffernan?’ Her voice was high pitched and sweet with a slight Devon accent.

‘That’s me, love. What can I do for you?’

‘My name’s Pauline Vine. I had a call from a policewoman . . . about Helen Sewell. I live nearby so I told her I’d pop in
right away and have a word. My late husband was a policeman, you know. Jack Vine . . . he was a sergeant.’ She looked around.
‘I’ve never been inside the police station before.’

Heffernan gave her his most encouraging smile, showing a row of uneven teeth. ‘That’s what comes of living an honest life,
love. Come on, follow me. I’ll get someone to bring us a cup of tea. This is Inspector Peterson, by the way.’

The woman nodded to Wesley and gave a little giggle. Wesley suspected she was enjoying herself.

‘So you’re related to Helen Sewell?’ Heffernan began when they were sitting in the interview room with tea in front of them.
China cups had been ordered. Nothing but the best.

‘By marriage. She married my cousin Harold. And we worked together in a children’s home . . . Raleigh House in Morbay. It’s
closed down now, of course – change of policy. They like children to be in foster homes now. I was a house mother there for
five years and Helen worked as a care assistant.’

‘What was she like?’

Pauline Vine went on to catalogue Helen Sewell’s virtues. She was a nice woman, she told them: so tragic about her developing
Alzheimer’s. Still, she was in a better place now, she said piously, dabbing her eyes with a clean tissue. Helen had been
so nice to her when her husband, Jack, had died. She had no idea why she should have been in possession of anything to do
with that poor
little boy who was abducted. The idea of Helen having anything to do with something like that was absolutely ridiculous,
she said with conviction.

Helen hadn’t been able to have children which was a shame because she’d loved kids. Harold died about ten years ago which
was very sad.

‘We found a card amongst her possessions from her sister, Jacqueline. Do you know anything about her?’

‘I knew she had a sister up north but she didn’t see anything of her. They lost touch.’

‘Why was that?’

Pauline Vine shook her head.

‘Did Helen ever talk about her past – before she met your cousin, Harold?’

Pauline considered the question for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, she didn’t. Her and Harold didn’t get married till they
were in their forties and I remember she said she travelled a lot when she was younger but that’s all. She didn’t go into
detail.’

Wesley glanced at his boss.

‘You wouldn’t know if the sister’s still alive?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’m sorry. Helen never talked about her. I got the impression there’d been some sort of falling out.’ She looked
Heffernan in the eye. ‘The policewoman said this is something to do with the murder of that singer, Leah something.’

‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment,’ Wesley said, afraid he was sounding rather defensive.

The truth was that they were still floundering about. They needed a lucky break and they needed it fast.

There was something they were missing. Something obvious. And Wesley needed to think. Gerry Heffernan was beginning to believe
that the Helen Sewell business might be irrelevant. Perhaps she’d worked for the Fallbrooks at one time and that’s when the
photo was taken. Perhaps the other woman was a fellow worker, not her sister. Jenny Booker might have known. But Jenny Booker
was dead.

Wesley favoured the possibility that Helen may have once been a New Age traveller before going on to lead a more conventional
existence with Pauline Vine’s cousin, Harold. He had no evidence whatsoever that Helen had such a colourful past but stranger
things had happened. And if she had been in the group that had found Marcus wandering – if she had taken him up north to
stay with her sister, Jacqueline, who was known as Lynne – that would explain everything. Including why Helen had taken such
an interest in the case. Maybe she had decided to keep Marcus because she couldn’t have children of her own and she panicked
about her decision later, hiding her crime by leaving the child with her sister. It was the only theory that seemed to fit.

Now they had Gordon Heather in custody, he hoped that Marcus would identify him as his kidnapper once and for all. They needed
a lucky break . . . and it was so close he could feel it.

He’d contacted the Garda over in Ireland on the off chance that they might have been aware of the travellers who took Marcus
under their wing but he’d received a negative answer. It was all a long time ago and no child matching Marcus’s description
had ever come to their attention. It had been a long shot.

He sat at his desk playing with his pen, turning it over and over in his fingers. He looked at his watch. It would be another
late night. He picked up the telephone on his desk. It might make things easier at home if Pam was warned that he’d be late
again. Although in recent weeks she had seemed to accept it with a sympathetic smile rather than the resentful snarls he had
had to endure during previous investigations.

When she answered the phone, he began to apologise but she cut him short. It was OK. She understood. But Michael was asking
for him. He wanted to show him his new reading book. If anything was guaranteed to make Wesley feel bad, it was the thought
of being a neglectful father. He put the phone down with a heavy heart. He’d make it up to Michael, he promised himself. When
the case was wrapped up he’d help him with his reading book, take him out for the day.

His thoughts were interrupted by Gerry Heffernan’s large hand on his shoulder. ‘Fancy a trip to the Bentham Arms?’

‘I thought we were going to have another word with Gordon Heather.’

‘He can wait. The longer we keep him, the more he’ll want to talk.’

Wesley looked doubtful. He was keen to interrogate Heather again, to hear his version of Marcus Fallbrook’s abduction. But
no doubt the boss had reasons of his own for the delay.

‘I want to ask Barry Houldsworth what he knows about the father, Jacob Fallbrook. I’ve had an idea.’

Wesley sat back. ‘And what’s that?’

‘What if Fallbrook arranged his son’s kidnapping for some reason . . . in cahoots with the nanny and her boyfriend. What if
something went wrong?’

‘And the kid wandered off? So you reckon Gordon Heather was just obeying orders?’

‘Let’s face it, Wes, can you see him as a ruthless kidnapper? He’s in cloud-cuckoo-land . . . away with the fairies. And there’s
no evidence in his flat or his car that he had anything to do with Leah’s kidnapping. He didn’t kill her.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. He could have got rid of the evidence and only left the Barber stuff to throw us off the
scent. Think how organised he was with the bogus taxi business. All this Blessed Joan stuff could be an elaborate act. I still
think he’s our star suspect, Gerry.’

Gerry Heffernan shrugged. ‘He’ll keep. Are you coming or what?’

Half an hour later they were sitting in the saloon bar of the Bentham Arms, facing Barry Houldsworth across a polished table.
Gerry Heffernan was drumming his fingers impatiently on the glossy wood. He had a pint of bitter shandy in front of him. Wesley,
the driver, had had to make do with an orange juice again. He was sick of orange juice but he was too preoccupied, or lazy,
to think of a suitable non-alcoholic alternative.

‘So you’re still having problems?’ Houldsworth sounded annoyingly smug.

‘We’re getting there, Barry, we’re getting there.’ Gerry Heffernan did his best to sound positive. In more exalted circles
they referred to it as ‘spin’.

Houldsworth looked at Wesley. ‘So why do you need my help if it’s all going so well?’

‘We’ve arrested Gordon Heather,’ Wesley replied. ‘You know this “Barber” business?’

‘Bloke who fancies himself as a lady’s hairdresser? Yeah. It’s not him is it?’

‘As a matter of fact it is. He’s been in and out of mental hospitals for years . . . ever since Jenny Booker did herself in.
He got conned by a group in California who claimed to be the followers of Joan Shiner. You’ve heard of her, of course?’

‘She had something to do with this pub . . . her cronies met in the attic.’

‘That’s right. Gordon Heather claimed he was collecting hair to be woven into a shawl for the baby some self-appointed prophetess
is expecting. At least that’s the official story. The trouble is, with the hair he had to send money.’