The Shining Skull (26 page)

Gerry Heffernan shook his head. ‘There’s one born every minute.’

Wesley put down his orange juice carefully on the nearest beer mat. ‘Marcus Fallbrook reckons it was Heather who abducted
him.’ He watched Houldsworth’s face for a reaction.

Houldsworth rolled his bloodshot eyes. ‘You mean the person who’s claiming to be Marcus Fallbrook? You’re sure he’s not an
impostor?’

‘He remembers things only the real Marcus would know. And the clincher is that a DNA test has confirmed it. He’s Marcus Fallbrook
all right.’

Houldsworth took a long drink from his pint glass. ‘We had Heather in for questioning but we could never prove anything.’

‘You think he did it?’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure he did . . . him and the girl.’

‘Anybody else in the frame? The father, for instance?’

‘I didn’t like the father . . . he was a cold bastard. But he wasn’t a serious suspect.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘There was Teddy Afleck, the father’s ex-business partner. Fallbrook treated him like shit and there was a lot of resentment
there. I suppose it could have been for revenge as well as hard cash.’

‘It’s taking revenge a bit far to abduct their seven-year-old son.’

‘But, according to you, he wasn’t killed was he? He was taken somewhere and dumped. Afleck – if it was Afleck – might have
thought he’d be found and taken home. He didn’t reckon with a load of travellers with no sense of responsibility.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. What Houldsworth said made sense. And Heather worked for Afleck at the time so
he might have been used to do some of his dirty work.

‘But what about Leah Wakefield? Are you absolutely sure the details of the Marcus Fallbrook ransom notes didn’t get out somehow?
Some officer working on the case with a loose tongue perhaps or . . . ’

Houldsworth smashed his glass down on the table. ‘Nothing’s impossible. You’ve worked on major investigations so you know
that as well as I do. There’s always some bright spark who can’t resist impressing his girlfriend or his mates with his inside
knowledge.’

Heffernan sighed. Houldsworth was absolutely right.

Wesley leaned forward. ‘Do you remember a sergeant at Tradmouth called Jack Vine?’

‘Jack. Oh aye. He worked on the Fallbrook case just before he retired. Why?’

‘It’s just that we came across his widow recently.’

Houldsworth grunted as though the conversation was starting to bore him.

Wesley changed tack. ‘Was Jacob Fallbrook one for the ladies? Only we’ve seen some letters Jenny Booker wrote to her parents
and there’s a hint that there was a woman about. Or maybe I was reading too much into it. She didn’t say anything specific.’

Houldsworth’s eyes widened. ‘I did hear something to that effect. But we didn’t consider it relevant at the time.’

‘So the Fallbrooks’ marriage was rocky?’

Houldsworth shrugged. ‘Are you charging Gordon Heather with the Fallbrook kidnapping?’

‘Possibly.’

‘What about Leah Wakefield’s murder?’

Gerry Heffernan shook his head. ‘We need to discover where she was held – get some forensic evidence that’ll clinch it once
and for all.’

‘Best of luck then. I’d lock him up and throw away the key,’ said Houldsworth, standing up. ‘I need the gents,’ he said as
he edged his way unsteadily round the table.

‘I think we’re being dismissed,’ Heffernan whispered in Wesley’s ear.

They drained their glasses.

‘You seen your mate Neil recently?’

Wesley put his hand to his forehead. ‘I knew there was something I wanted to do. Neil was interested in Joan Shiner and her
followers because the symbol of her cult was carved on some of the graves he was excavating. I wonder if he’s managed to find
out anything more about her. It might help us to be armed with a few facts when we interview Gordon Heather.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Should be in the churchyard.’

He began to walk towards the door and Heffernan followed. Soon they found themselves outside in the late September sunshine.
It was warm and Wesley took off his jacket before strolling in the direction of the church.

The high barriers had been taken down now that the exhumations were finished and Wesley spotted Neil immediately, working
in the deep trench getting his hands dirty.

‘Found anything interesting?’he asked from the side of the hole.

Neil looked up. ‘Hang on a minute.’ He climbed up the ladder at the head of the trench, leaving three colleagues to carry
on the good work, and placed the trowel he’d been using neatly in a black plastic bucket.

‘I think I’m getting there,’ he said, his eyes alight with enthusiasm.

‘Getting where?’ Heffernan asked. He’d never really known whether or not to take Neil Watson too seriously. In his opinion
archaeologists didn’t really belong to the real world.

‘My murder investigation. A bloke called Grooby has this sampler . . . embroidered using human hair. I’ve translated the symbols
and it says “Cursed be the Cain in our midst”. What do you make of that?’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘If I remember rightly from my Sunday School days, Cain was the first murderer so it could mean
that one of Joan Shiner’s followers had killed someone. But it doesn’t tell us who the murderer was . . . or the victim.’

Neil looked vaguely disappointed. ‘I’ve found out all about Juanita Bentham, the woman buried with the mystery skeleton. And
I’ve looked at various records to see if any local boy went missing at around the time of her death. But I couldn’t find anything.’

‘Now you know what I’ve got to put up with,’ said Wesley, turning away. ‘Good luck.’

He needed it. And so did they.

‘I think we’ve kept Gordon Heather waiting long enough,’ said Gerry Heffernan as Neil climbed back into his trench.

‘You’ve taken your time.’ Gordon Heather stared ahead, as if he was past caring.

‘We’ve had things to do,’ said Heffernan as he landed heavily in the wooden chair. ‘I’ve had someone looking up the Prophetess
Lindy on the Internet. Nice little scam she’s got going. We’ve been in touch with the police in California too. They’re going
to look into it and if they find her she could be facing charges of obtaining money by deception or whatever they call it
over there.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Heffernan pretended to consult his notes. But Wesley could see the pages were blank apart from a few doodles,
pictures of boats mainly.

‘I think we should have a little chat about Marcus Fallbrook.’

Heather flinched as though someone had hit him. ‘I’ve told
you. I had nothing to do with that. I was with Jenny when he disappeared.’

‘I’m sorry about what happened to Jenny,’ said Wesley softly, his eyes on the man’s face. ‘I suppose she blamed herself for
not watching Marcus more closely. Is that why she did it, Gordon? Is that why Jenny killed herself? Did she feel responsible?’

The answer was a nod, accompanied by a stifled sob. Gordon Heather was crying.

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘According to Marcus you were involved in his abduction.’

Wesley touched the chief inspector’s arm, a gesture of warning. The last thing he wanted was to drive Gordon Heather over
the edge. He was close enough to breaking down as it was.

But Heffernan carried on. ‘You kidnapped him, didn’t you? And Jenny helped you.’

Heather let out another sob and wiped away the tear that was dribbling down his cheek with the back of his hand.

Wesley leaned forward. ‘It’s all right, Gordon. Take your time. Would you like a cup of tea?’ He could hear Gerry Heffernan’s
muffled snort of derision but he ignored it. In his opinion Gordon Heather needed coaxing rather than bullying.

‘Yes please,’ replied Heather, meek as a frightened child.

Wesley nodded to the young constable who was sitting by the door who quickly got the message and hurried out. ‘We could do
with one too,’ Wesley called after his disappearing back. His mouth was dry and he needed something to sustain him.

He smiled at Gordon. In his opinion nice cops always learned far more than nasty cops. ‘Why don’t you tell us everything you
know about the Fallbrooks? Jenny must have talked about them a lot.’

He inclined his head politely and awaited the answer. Gerry Heffernan next to him shuffled his feet impatiently. As far as
he was concerned, Gordon Heather was a grade one nutcase and anything he said could hardly be relied upon to be the truth.
Not that he’d be lying deliberately – it was just that he considered that Gordon’s truth was unlikely to be the same as anyone
else’s.

‘She told me things . . . lots of things.’

Wesley leaned forward. ‘What things?’

‘About him. About the father. There were secrets in that house.’

‘What secrets?’

Gordon Heather hesitated for a few moments before he began to speak.

Letter from Mrs Sarah Jewel of Brighton to Juanita Bentham, 20th March 1816

My dearest Juanita,

I rejoice to hear the news that you are safely delivered of a fine son and pray that you and the babe are well. It may be
that Mr Jewel and I shall visit Devon soon for I long to be reunited with you and to see your sweet little Charles.

News of Joan Shiner’s confinement has reached Brighton and some say that she was not with child at all but rather that she
suffers from dropsy. I did hear tell of a box of secrets. Have you any news of such a thing?

Your Rector’s protégé, the Amazing Devon Marvel, appears in Brighton on the eleventh of next month and all society is to attend.
I await his performance with eagerness for I have heard much of the phenomenon and long to see him with my own eyes, as I
long to see you, my dearest friend.

With my kindest love to you and your little one. Sarah Jewel

‘She used to go away . . . Marcus’s mother. She used to go to London and leave Jenny to look after Marcus. Jenny thought she
had a man . . . heard her talking on the phone to him. She felt sorry for Marcus. She said it wasn’t right. It upset her.’

‘What did?’

‘Fallbrook’s whores walking around as if they owned the place.’

‘Fallbrook had women? Who were they?’

Heather suddenly looked unsure of himself. ‘Don’t know. Never saw them. Only know what Jenny told me.’

After a few more minutes of fruitless questioning, Wesley and Heffernan left the room. Both men thought that they’d learned
all they could from Gordon Heather for the moment. And somehow neither could see him as Leah Wakefield’s murderer.

‘Think any of that is relevant?’ Heffernan asked as they walked back to the CID office.

‘If he’s telling the truth it means that the Fallbrooks weren’t as squeaky clean as they wanted everyone to think at the time.
This business about Jacob Fallbrook’s women friends and Anna’s calls to her fancy man isn’t in any of the police reports so
they obviously succeeded in fooling Houldsworth into thinking that they were a happy, united family. But we’ve only Heather’s
word for all this. I wouldn’t take everything he said as gospel, Gerry.’

‘True. And as for any of it being connected with what happened to Marcus . . . ’

‘Do we tell him what Heather’s saying about his parents’ private life?’

Heffernan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know either. But I do think that whoever kidnapped Leah is walking around with a hundred thousand pounds burning
a hole in their pockets. Sooner or later they won’t be able to resist spending it.’

‘So we keep an eye out for anyone who’s spending money they shouldn’t have? It’s as good an idea as any. But if our man has
any sense, he’ll stash it away until the fuss dies down.’

‘Luckily for us, people don’t always act rationally,’ said Wesley.

Rachel was waiting for them back in the CID office, fanning herself impatiently with a piece of paper.

Wesley asked how the search for the place where Leah was held was progressing.

‘No luck yet,’ she said with a sigh. ‘They’ve just started on the area near Afleck’s boatyard.’ She paused. ‘Afleck’s got
the builders in apparently.’

Gerry Heffernan was suddenly alert. ‘I thought Afleck was supposed to be broke.’

‘Maybe he’s taken out a loan,’ Rachel suggested.

Heffernan shook his head. ‘Teddy Afleck’s been struggling ever since Jacob Fallbrook pulled out of the business. I reckon
he’s kept it going on a wing and a prayer . . . and a sympathetic bank manager. Maybe we should have a word with our Mr Afleck
. . .
see where the money’s suddenly come from. The hundred grand ransom the Wakefields paid for Leah has to be floating around
somewhere – and if someone’s got it, it’s my bet they won’t be able to resist spending some of it. Especially if there’s an
urgent need like in Afleck’s case. I can tell you from experience that half his equipment’s knackered and there’s yards on
the Trad that can do the work twice as quick and undercut him for price and all.’

‘You think Afleck kidnapped Marcus . . . and now Leah? But Marcus said Gordon Heather abducted him.’

‘Heather might have helped Afleck. He was working for him at the time after all. Perhaps they used to be closer than they’ll
admit.’

‘We mustn’t forget the possibility there might be two kidnappers. Who’s to say that the similarity of the notes isn’t intended
to confuse us? Someone got to know about the original note somehow and decided to use it to muddy the waters?’ Wesley considered
the options for a few moments before coming up with an idea that had been nagging at the back of his mind for some time. ‘I’m
wondering, in view of what Heather told us about Jacob Fallbrook’s extra marital affairs and Anna’s attitude to her son, whether
Jenny organised it all to give the Fallbrooks a jolt . . . got her boyfriend to help her. Perhaps things got out of hand.’

‘And somehow her and Heather managed to lose the kid. It all went wrong.’

Wesley nodded. This sounded a possible scenario. Perhaps Jenny did it for the noblest of reasons and it all backfired and
then afterwards she couldn’t live with what she’d done. ‘I need to have another word with Marcus. When did he say he’d be
back?’

‘He didn’t. I’ve tried to get him on his mobile but I’ve had no luck. I’ll get onto the Greater Manchester force – ask someone
to go and see him and find out what his plans are and ask him to get in touch. We can’t have our most important witness going
walkabout.’

‘Mind you, with everything that’s happened I can understand why he wanted to go and sort things out back home. And he mentioned
a girlfriend . . . name of Sharon.’

Heffernan grinned. ‘
Cherchez la femme
.’

Wesley frowned. He felt more confused now than when the case first began.

* * *

Neil Watson was getting distracted. Looking through the microfilm records of the
Tradmouth Echo’s
back copies – way back in this case – he came across reports from the time when King George III had suffered attacks of porphyria
which had been diagnosed by the doctors of the day as madness. The time when the fat, debauched Prince Regent had ruled in
his father’s place; when America had already been lost and the Brighton Pavilion was brand spanking new. Neil read every article,
every advertisement for strange and wonderful things, with the rapt fascination of one discovering a strange new universe.
But he told himself that he had to concentrate on the matter in hand – to look for any reference to Stoke Beeching or Joan
Shiner.

Several of Joan Shiner’s meetings were reported, as was a protest by the Reverend Charles Boden and some of his parishioners,
who were objecting to Joan’s activities in the area. It seemed, reading between the lines, that they weren’t having much success
– Joan’s claims being so much more exciting than the prospect of matins and a lengthy sermon. Joan’s star was in the ascendant
but it had vanished from the skies as quickly as it had appeared. It had all ended in tears and she had been exposed as a
charlatan.

Then a headline caught Neil’s eye. ‘Devon Marvel unwell. Miraculous powers fade.’ He glanced at the date – a month or so after
Juanita Bentham’s death – and read on. It seemed that the Devon Marvel’s prodigious talents had failed him during an evening
at an assembly hall in Brighton. The calculations he had once performed with effortless ease now proved beyond his capabilities.
He had hesitated and made the most basic errors, earning himself the boos and jeers of the audience. It seemed that it had
been an embarrassment all round.

Neil scratched his head, wondering what had caused this dramatic fall from grace. Perhaps the boy had just had enough; perhaps
he had been suffering from exhaustion brought on by the schedule imposed on him by his avaricious father. Neil continued his
search but he found no further mention of Peter Hackworthy, the Amazing Devon Marvel, who must have sunk back into obscurity
after his brief brush with the world of celebrity. But the papers did record Joan Shiner’s demise in 1817 – a full year after
her Shining Babe had failed to make an appearance – with what seemed like inappropriate glee.

He switched off the machine. Much as he was enjoying his sojourn in the Regency period, he had things to do.

It was four o’clock by the time Wesley steered the car down the corkscrew lane, overshadowed by greenery, that led to Teddy
Afleck’s boatyard. The reports of the commencement of building work hadn’t been exaggerated. A builder’s van stood next to
the offices and the sound of drilling and hammering drifted over, masking the hypnotic lapping of the waves.

Afleck himself was working on the propeller of a small cabin cruiser, beached on the concrete slipway. The tide had receded,
leaving little islands of seaweed. Wesley breathed the salty air in deeply as he climbed out of the driver’s door. Gerry Heffernan
was already making his way over to Afleck who had stood up to greet him. Obviously recognising an old customer, he extended
his hand to Gerry who shook it with distant politeness rather than his usual bonhomie. Afleck was a suspect after all.

‘Good to see you, Gerry,’ Afleck said with what looked to Wesley like a forced smile. Once the introductions were made, he
led the way into the office and invited them to sit.

‘I was wondering if I’d see your lot again after that lad came here asking about Gordon Heather.’

‘We found him.’ Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other.

‘Er, how is he these days?’ It was impossible to tell from Teddy Afleck’s expression whether he thought the rediscovery of
Gordon Heather was a good or a bad thing.

‘He’s been having problems . . . ’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Afleck said with what sounded like sincerity. ‘He was a strange lad but . . . You’ll let me have that
picture back, won’t you? I told the officer who came . . . ’

‘Of course,’ said Wesley. ‘You’re having some building work done I see.’

Afleck smiled. He didn’t look like a man with something to hide but then, in Wesley’s experience, it was often hard to tell.
‘Long overdue, I’m afraid. There were things that needed doing if I was to stay in business. Equipment I needed to buy.’

Gerry Heffernan sat back in the hard wooden office chair and looked Afleck in the eye. ‘I know this is a cheeky question,
Teddy, but where’s the cash coming from?’

‘It’s no secret.’ There was a small pause before Afleck continued, as though he was thinking of what to say. ‘I’ve, er, come
into a little windfall. Uncle of mine died and left me the lion’s share. He was quite well off. All things come to those who
wait.’ He grinned, pleased with himself . . . and the providence of rich uncles.

‘We’ll have to check it out,’ said Gerry Heffernan, sounding more than a little embarrassed.

‘Be my guest. Cup of tea?’

They both declined. Wesley looked at his watch. They planned to visit the Fallbrooks after this and time was tight.

‘Just one thing I wanted to ask you,’ Wesley said. ‘We’ve been hearing stories that Jacob Fallbrook had affairs.’

A smirk spread across Teddy Afleck’s face. ‘Jacob was a randy old bugger. I always felt a bit sorry for his wife. Mind you,
she was no angel.’

‘Was there any woman in particular?’

Afleck looked away. ‘Me and Jacob didn’t talk much after he left me in the shit. Anyway, it was no concern of mine if he’d
got himself into a mess, was it?’

‘A mess?’

‘Going with other women and keeping it from his wife. That’s mess enough for any man in my book.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other, wondering if there was a Mrs Afleck.

Wesley had a sudden thought. ‘Does the name Helen Sewell mean anything to you. Or Jackie . . . that would be her sister?’

There was a flicker of recognition in Teddy Afleck’s eyes, gone in a split second but unmistakable.

‘Have you heard the names before? Could Jacob have known one of them?’

Afleck looked undecided for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Look, Jacob wasn’t squeaky clean . . . not in his love life and
certainly not in his business life. But I’ve told you everything I know. OK?’

Gerry Heffernan gave Wesley an almost imperceptible nod. There was nothing more Teddy Afleck was willing to tell them. And
it was about time they found out more about Jacob Fallbrook’s secret life.

Half an hour later they were driving through the gates leading to Mirabilis, their car tyres crunching on the gravel drive.

‘Is this any use, do you think? It all happened before Adrian was even born. There’s no way he’ll know if his father had other
women. It’s hardly the sort of thing he’d have been told, is it?’

But Wesley looked determined. ‘There’s more than one way of finding out family secrets. He might have come across a letter
or he might have heard something.’

Heffernan had to concede defeat. He said nothing more as they got out of the car and rang the doorbell.

‘How do you think we should play this?’ Wesley asked, suddenly racked by doubt. Asking a man about his late father’s illicit
love life would hardly make for the easiest of conversations.

‘You’re supposed to be the clever one,’ was Heffernan’s only reply. Wesley thought he detected a hint of resentment but he
told himself he must be mistaken. Gerry Heffernan hardly went in for that sort of thing.

Both the Fallbrooks were at home and they received them with cool civility before leading them into the drawing and offering
tea, which was declined. Neither man felt inclined to spend longer than necessary there.

They began by telling Adrian and Carol that they had questioned Gordon Heather about Marcus’s abduction and Adrian expressed
some relief that something was happening at last. Marcus, he said, had been robbed of his childhood and he needed some degree
of closure. Wesley wondered where he had learned the vocabulary of counselling. He wouldn’t have imagined it to be Adrian
Fallbrook’s thing. Perhaps he’d been reading up on it since Marcus’s return.