The Shining Skull (8 page)

And then there were the marks on the bones. Neil had hardly liked to point them out to Ventnor but he was eager to hear what
Colin Bowman had to say about them.

The only time Neil had seen marks like that before was on butchered animal bones. He needed confirmation, of course, but as
far as he could tell, the boy had been killed with a sharp implement of some kind. And his throat had been cut to the bone.

Wesley arrived home at a reasonable time – six o’clock on the dot – and he expected some gratitude for this display of exemplary
behaviour.

But Pam wasn’t alone with the children. As soon as Wesley opened the front door he heard his mother-in-law, Della, her voice
rising above the crying of baby Amelia as if vying for Pam’s attention. His heart sank but then he told himself that with
any luck she’d just called in and would be on her way out any moment. But fortune is rarely that kind.

Wesley took a deep breath and fixed an artificial smile on his face before making his way into the living room where he found
his wife frantically tidying up while Della sipped a large glass of red wine slumped on the sofa next to the crying baby in
her playpen.

‘Where’s Michael?’ was his first question.

‘He’s playing with a friend from school. He’s been invited to tea. Nice to know he’s settling in,’ said Pam, still on the
move. Michael had just started in the reception class of the school where Pam taught and, so far, things seemed to be going
well.

Wesley picked Amelia up and the crying ceased immediately.

‘Hello, Della,’ he said, thinking he should make the effort to foster good relations. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Wesley. How are things at the cop shop? Still beating up suspects and oppressing the innocent?’

Wesley had learned long ago to take his mother-in-law’s remarks with a hefty pinch of salt, even though he suspected that
she half believed what she was saying.

Carrying Amelia in one arm, he put the other around Pam’s waist and kissed her cheek. ‘How was school?’

‘Could be worse,’ she answered, her face serious.

‘I’ll make the supper,’ he said softly so Della couldn’t hear. He feared the mention of free food might encourage her to stay.

‘You’d better ask my mother if she’s staying.’

The question ‘Must I?’ formed on Wesley’s lips but he managed to swallow the words in time.

He turned to Della. ‘I expect you’ve got to get home,’ he said hopefully. But Della announced that she’d stay and have something
to eat with them as though she was doing them a great favour. Wesley responded by asking her to set the table, a suggestion
she pointedly ignored.

Once they were sitting at the table, Wesley looked across at his mother-in-law who was leaning forward, her hooped earrings
dangling in the lasagne she was consuming as though she hadn’t eaten in days. He sometimes wondered how Della could have produced
a sane daughter like Pam. But he had concluded long ago that Pam must have taken after her father, a man Wesley had never
met due to the fact that he’d departed to join that great refuge for put-upon husbands in the sky the year before he and Pam
met.

The conversation over the meal was sporadic. Pam’s new
headmistress; Michael’s reading book; the police’s progress with the Barber enquiry. During a short lull in the routine chatter,
Wesley watched as Della ate in what appeared to be bored silence and made a decision. If she insisted on imposing on them,
he might as well make use of the situation.

‘Della, you’ve lived around here for years. Do you remember a little boy being kidnapped? Marcus Fallbrook his name was. His
family lived in Derenham.’

Della’s mouth was full so she couldn’t answer for a few seconds. But the expression on her face and the frantic gesticulation
of her hands told Wesley that the case was familiar to her.

‘Course I remember it,’ she said at last. ‘Someone I was working with knew the family – I was teaching at a high school in
those days. It was awful. They never found the poor kid, you know. And they never got who did it either,’ she said accusingly
as though Wesley was personally responsible.

‘How well did your colleague know the Fallbrooks?’

‘Quite well I think. She went to school with the mother or something.’

‘Do you know where I can find her?’

Della looked wary, as though she suspected that her former acquaintance would be dragged to the bowels of Tradmouth police
station and subjected to hours of brutal interrogation. ‘Why?’

‘There’s been a new development in the case.’ He felt reluctant to go into details. He didn’t trust Della not to spread the
good tidings about Marcus Fallbrook’s possible return to life across the county. ‘And I’d just like to talk to anyone who
knew the family at the time, that’s all.’

Della looked at him suspiciously. Then, after a few moments, she shrugged the shoulders. ‘Can’t do any harm, I suppose. I’ve
not seen Linda for ages – in fact I think she’s retired – but I still send her a card at Christmas. She’ll be in my address
book – it’s in my bag. Remind me before I go, won’t you.’

Wesley didn’t know why, but he felt a thrill of anticipation as he walked to pick Michael up from his new friend’s house a
couple of streets away. He was impatient to contact Linda Tranter, Della’s old colleague; impatient to speak to someone who’d
actually known the Fallbrooks before and during that traumatic time.

There was always the possibility that she might be able to throw
some light on the mystery. But then again, said the pessimist inside him, maybe not.

‘Anyone free in the Neston area to take a fare to Morbay?’ The voice crackled over the radio and the man, about to pop a toffee
between his thin lips, froze.

The answer came. Vic could be there in ten minutes.

‘It’s a lady called Wetherby. Five Weston Place. New flats by the river. OK, Vic?’

‘Wilco. Roger and out.’ Vic had watched too much television as a child. He had been having a quiet cigarette after dropping
off his last fare at one of Neston’s better hotels and he threw the glowing stub out of the window before starting the engine.

He drove through the town to the waterfront, to a block of new flats in what had once been a warehouse storing timber from
the Baltic. When he got there he parked untidily in front of a BMW and climbed out of the driver’s seat.

As he searched the row of steel doorbells for the name Wetherby, he didn’t notice the shadowy figure sitting in the anonymous
dark-blue Ford in the car park, stationed well away from the bright streetlights that lit the area behind the flats.

Vic returned to his vehicle and a few minutes later a plump young woman appeared in the doorway of the flats. She was dressed
in a short skirt that showed too much dimpled thigh and a small top and jacket designed for fashion rather than warmth. As
she trotted over the tarmac to the minicab her long blond curls bounced, shining like brass in the sodium light. She opened
the car door and as she climbed in, the Barber took a hardbacked notebook off the dashboard and began to write in it.

He made a careful note of the name of the minicab company and the name of the passenger. He had heard her name before. She
used that company regularly.

She was just the sort of person he was looking for.

Leah’s manager, Brad Williams was on his way down from London and a tiny voice in the back of Suzy Wakefield’s brain whispered
that it was for her sake that he had dropped everything to drive through the dark and rain to her side.

When Leah’s career was budding, Suzy had yielded to Brad’s expert advances and ended up in bed with him. She hadn’t liked
to
refuse – after all, crossing him might jeopardise Leah’s future. He had been an imaginative and energetic lover – a pleasing
contrast to Darren – and she found that, against her expectations, she had rather enjoyed the experience of infidelity. She
had come to look forward to ‘business meetings’ at Brad’s apartment overlooking the Thames, where most of the business had
been conducted between a pair of freshly laundered Egyptian cotton sheets.

But over the past year there had been no more trips to the bedroom. Brad had taken up with a pouty South American beauty called
Maria, fifteen years his junior, and much to Suzy’s disappointment, her relationship with Leah’s manager had become strictly
business.

But now she sat thinking of his anxiety, his eagerness to be down there with her, supporting her. Perhaps, she thought, Maria
was fading from the scene. Perhaps she had returned to wherever she came from, leaving Brad thinking fondly of his old love.
Not once did it occur to Suzy that Brad Williams had been using her, playing enjoyable power games. And that he was making
the trip to Devon to protect his considerable investments.

‘What time’s he arriving?’

Suzy was shocked from her reverie by Darren’s voice.

‘He said he’d drive straight down.’

‘I don’t know why you had to call him at all. We can deal with this ourselves. If we tell the cops.’

Suzy pressed her lips together in a stubborn line. ‘I’m not going to risk it. Let’s wait to see what Brad thinks, shall we?’

‘Bloody Brad,’ Darren muttered under his breath. He sometimes wondered about Suzy’s exact relationship with their daughter’s
manager. He wondered why she’d always known things about Leah’s career that he’d had to find out second hand. And there were
times when he’d wondered what had gone on at those long meetings in Brad’s dockside apartment.

The two of them sat for a while in hostile silence until Darren stood up and marched off into the kitchen to get himself a
can of lager. If he was going to be stuck there with his ex for the night, he might as well make the best of it.

He had just opened the steel door of the huge fridge when the phone began to ring and he grabbed a can from the top shelf
before hurrying back to the lounge.

As he crossed the threshold he saw the expression on Suzy’s
face as she held the receiver to her ear. The mixture of anguish and sheer terror.

‘Please,’ she was saying. ‘Please tell me where she is.’

But it seemed that the voice on the other end was ignoring her maternal pleas. After a few seconds she put the receiver down,
tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Well?’ In spite of his initial assumption that it was some sick joke, Darren was starting to feel uneasy.

‘He says I’ve got to go to some old gibbet at a crossroads – it’s a mile outside Derenham at the top of the hill and one road
leads to Burnington and the other to Tradmouth. He says the instructions have been left there . . . and proof they’ve got
Leah.’

Darren stood quite still for a few moments, torn between assuring her that it was bound to be a hoax and entering into his
ex-wife’s state of panic.

But someone had to keep cool. ‘We’ll go up there. Now.’

‘What about Brad?’

‘This is none of his bloody business,’ said Darren viciously. There were times he wished they’d never met Brad Williams. Who
knows, if it hadn’t been for Brad, Leah’s meteoric rise in the music business might never have happened. And, despite the
money, he had found himself wondering in recent months whether celebrity was all it was cracked up to be.

Suzy stood up. She looked pale. And very frightened. ‘OK. We’ll go now. Brad probably won’t be here till eleven anyway.’

He looked at the can of lager, still full, and put it down. He didn’t want a drink-driving charge on top of his other worries.
‘Come on. We’ll take my car.’

He led her out of the house gently, made sure everything was locked up and set the burglar alarm. You couldn’t be too careful,
even in what the Wakefields considered to be the middle of nowhere.

The lanes were pitch dark and the headlights of Darren’s SUV picked out moths and shy night creatures in their merciless beam.
A rabbit bounded out of their path into the high hedgerow. It looked as terrified as Suzy felt. She dug her nails into the
passenger seat and held her breath.

Once they caught sight of another pair of headlights coming towards them and Darren pulled into a passing place. Suzy swore
softly under her breath, furious that someone had the audacity to impede their progress.

‘Calm down, will you,’ said Darren, sounding as agitated as she was. ‘According to this map, we’re nearly there. Can you see
anything?’

Suzy strained her eyes. They were coming to a T-junction. A signpost stood against the hedgerow. Darren pulled the car over
into another passing place and got out, leaving the engine running and the headlights on to light up the black velvet darkness.

His calculations were right. One finger of the signpost pointed to Tradmouth, one to Burnington and the third to Derenham.
This was the place.

Then he saw it. The gibbet. Many years ago men and women had been hanged at these crossroads and their mortal remains left
there to rot and feed the crows as a warning to others. Darren shuddered. The sudden feeling of dread he’d just experienced
suggested to him that their unhappy spirits were still about, watching his every move in the still night air.

He stood for a few moments staring at the gibbet which was illuminated by the headlamps of the SUV. There was something attached
to the shaft of the gibbet, an envelope taped to the rough, rotting wood. Gingerly he crossed the lane and pulled at it and
it came off with a noise that sounded like ripping paper.

This was a joke. It had to be.

His fingers were trembling as he opened the envelope clumsily, tearing at it to get to its contents.

He stood there in the headlights reading the neatly printed words on the thin yellow paper.

‘If you love Leah and you want her returned you must pay fifty thousand pounds for her continued survival. We’ll say where
and when. Wait for instructions and don’t tell the police. If you do we’ll cut her throat.’

Darren stared at the note, suddenly paralysed with fear.

Maybe it wasn’t a joke after all.

Letter from Elizabeth Bentham to Letitia Corly, 19th June 1815

My dearest Letitia,

How the bells have been ringing out to celebrate the great victory at Waterloo. I am quite deafened by their clamour.

I pray that all is well with your mother and that her trouble is much relieved. I shall send a servant with a decoction of
rosemary in wine which is a sovereign remedy for giddiness and the falling sickness.

The damp weather of late troubles my new sister-in-law. You have yet to meet dear Juanita but I must tell you that her complexion
is dark. It is said that her grandmother was a freed slave and her father – a gentleman of London – did meet and marry her
mother on the island of Nevis. Who would have thought to have so exotic a flower here in the midst of our little society,
but it seems that she pleases all who meet her with her gentle manner and dark eyes.

When my brother met with her, she was governess to the daughters of a Mrs Jewel in Brighton, a person of good standing and
great fashion, as are all in that town now the Prince Regent has built his great pavilion there. I have heard that it is the
most astounding creation, more outlandish than any other sight on earth.

Tonight I shall attend a meeting in the house of Lord Penworthy. Lady Penworthy has assured me that I shall see strange and
wonderful things there. Juanita does not wish to accompany me so it seems that I must go alone.

Your most affectionate friend, Elizabeth Bentham

* * *

Wesley arrived at the police station early that Friday morning. He knew that there was a mound of papers on his desk awaiting
his attention. And he wanted to have another look through Barry Houldsworth’s notebooks.

He hadn’t heard from Adrian Fallbrook for a day or so. Perhaps everything was going swimmingly. Perhaps Adrian was entertaining
his long-lost brother, feasting on the proverbial fatted calf. Or perhaps, more likely, he was still uncertain how to react
and awaiting developments. Wesley resolved to call him later and ask whether Mark Jones had contacted him about taking the
DNA test he mentioned. At least science would settle the matter one way or another. If the test was ever taken.

Progress on the Barber case was slow and in some ways Wesley wished he would strike again; wished he’d make some stupid mistake
that would give him away. Not that he wanted anyone to be harmed, but at that moment they had so little to go on and he was
hungry for some new clue that would lead to an arrest.

The car he used was a common type and it had no distinguishing marks; no scratches, no broken sidelights. On first glance
it appeared to be just another minicab: somebody’s car by day, transformed with the appropriate stickers and licence plate
to a private hire vehicle at night. But the licence plates and minicab logos were false and so was the registration number.

Then there was the question of his appearance. The descriptions the victims provided had been different every time. That meant
there was either more than one of them out there or, more likely he was disguising himself, in which case he was going to
a great deal of trouble to achieve his ends . . . whatever they were.

The chief inspector’s glass fronted office was still in darkness. He looked at his watch. Presumably Heffernan would still
be at home. He’d never been an early riser.

People were starting to drift in, discarding dripping umbrellas in the stand provided and complaining, as only the British
can complain, about the vagaries of the weather. Wesley walked over to the window and looked out. The office overlooked the
river which was a deep shade of grey under the glowering sky.

The rain seemed to be easing off so Wesley grabbed his waterproof coat, told DC Paul Johnson he and DCI Heffernan were going
to talk to a possible witness, and left the office. He half walked, half ran out of the police station and marched past the
boat float, down the High Street, making for Baynards Quay. He needed to talk to Gerry Heffernan away from the office; to
share his thoughts and ideas before Gerry was summoned on high to report to CS Nutter or Wesley was diverted by the investigation.

He hurried through a narrow street of medieval houses, their top storeys jutting out over the road, keeping the rain off the
walkers below, until he reached the cobbled quayside. To his left was the river. The tide was high and the moored boats gyrated
violently on the slate-coloured water. Gerry’s cottage was at the end of the row of houses, the smallest dwelling, separated
from the Tradmouth Arms by a narrow road. Wesley opened the wooden gate, crossed the tiny front garden and knocked at the
door.

‘Hope the Nutter hasn’t sent you to get me out of bed,’ were the big man’s first words as he opened the door. He was attempting
to do up his stained tie with clumsy fingers and he had the haunted look of a man who knows he’s late for work.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve given you a cast-iron alibi. We’re out interviewing a witness.’

‘A witness to what?’

Wesley grinned. ‘Take your pick. I just thought we needed some breathing space. You look tired, Gerry. You OK?’

Heffernan grunted in the affirmative and led the way into a small living room which was as neat as his desk at the police
station was untidy. He closed the door and sat down.

‘I had a late night last night, that’s all,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘I met Joyce for a drink. She needed to talk to someone.
It looks like it’s inevitable that her mum’ll have to go into a nursing home. The Alzheimer’s is getting worse all the time.
Joyce had to come home from work yesterday because she’d got out of the house and was wandering in the road.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Wesley.

‘There’s a vacancy at a place in Morbay . . . Sedan House. Joyce is going to have a look at it.’

At that moment Wesley heard a sound outside the door. Heffernan suddenly fell silent and put his finger to his lips.

‘What’s up?’Wesley whispered as the door opened to reveal Rosie Heffernan, bleary-eyed and yawning, dressed in a long T-shirt.
She registered Wesley’s presence and raised a sleepy hand in greeting.

‘You’re up early, love,’ said Heffernan, the indulgent father. ‘There’s tea in the pot.’

‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll help myself, shall I?’ she said as if she half expected her father to wait on her.

‘Yeah, you do that, love. Me and Wes have got things to talk about.’

Rosie grinned and turned to go.

‘And put the kettle on again while you’re at it, eh.’ Heffernan said hopefully.

‘What did your last servant die of?’ She flung the words over her shoulder affectionately before disappearing.

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Look, Wes . . . er, don’t mention Joyce when Rosie’s around. She doesn’t know yet and . . . ’

‘You should tell her. She’ll find out sooner or later.’

‘The job helps. Whenever I’m out I tell her I’m on duty.’

Wesley shook his head. Gerry Heffernan could face down armed robbers and murderers but his five-feet-two-inch daughter was
a different question.

Heffernan sighed and changed the subject. ‘So what’s new?’

‘I’ve been worried about this Marcus Fallbrook business.’

‘Why? If he takes a DNA test and he’s a match, that’ll settle it.’

‘Maybe. But there’s still the question of who kidnapped him.’

‘You want to talk to him again?’

Wesley nodded. ‘And I want to interview the nanny, Jenny Booker. Houldsworth’s convinced she had something to do with it.
If the nanny abducted him, she’d have probably made sure that he came to no harm. Even if the boyfriend arranged it all and
wanted to kill him, she’d have put her foot down, I’m sure of it. We’re not talking Myra Hindley here . . . just a girl who’s
got in with the wrong bloke and things got out of hand.’

‘You could be right. But Houldsworth said they couldn’t prove anything against her at the time?’

‘Yes. But from reading Houldsworth’s notes it seems they went rather easy on her. She was very upset by it all . . . almost
hysterical.’

‘Understandable – unless it was all an act.’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’

‘What about the boyfriend? What was his name?’

‘Gordon Heather. I think it’s important that we trace him as well.’

‘This Mark Jones claims that he remembers nothing about the actual abduction. That’s suspicious, don’t you think?’

Wesley shrugged. He was no expert on the effects of a traumatic experience on the human memory but he knew that it wasn’t
uncommon for such events to be suppressed or obliterated. And being snatched from your family at the age of seven is about
as traumatic as it gets. ‘All we can do is wait for the results of the DNA test and take it from there.’ He hesitated for
a moment. ‘My mother-in-law called round last night.’

‘Oh dear. I am sorry,’ said Heffernan with a chuckle. ‘How is Red Della these days?’

‘Still keeping several Australian vineyards in business single handed. But she did have something interesting to say. She
used to work with someone who was friendly with the Fallbrooks at the time of the kidnapping – lady by the name of Linda Tranter.
She gave me the address. It’s in Upper Town. Not far away.’

‘Think we should pay her a visit?’

‘Can’t do any harm,’ he answered, trying to sound casual, relieved that his boss seemed to be as curious about the reappearance
of Marcus Fallbrook – or Mark Jones – as he was. ‘We should ring her first. If she’s an elderly lady, it might not be a good
idea to turn up on her doorstep out of the blue.’

Wesley pulled his mobile out of his pocket and made the call. But when he had finished speaking Gerry Heffernan could see
the disappointment on his face. ‘Well?’

‘She said she’d see us at four.’

‘Pity. That means we’ll have to go back to the station.’ He looked around. ‘Doesn’t look as if Rosie’s going to bring us that
tea. Anything new come in on the Barber case?’

‘He’s still keeping one step ahead of us.’ Wesley’s inner pessimist was rising to the surface again.

‘Once more unto the breach dear friends . . . ’ Heffernan mumbled under his breath as he stood up and reached for his coat.

Brad Williams must have driven from London in record time because he had arrived only an hour after Suzy and Darren had returned
from picking up the note. The three of them talked into the early hours and overnight Brad turned from staunchest ally to
the enemy within. And the next morning Suzy Wakefield found herself hating him.

‘I’m not going to the police,’ she said for the umpteenth time. She was exhausted. She’d tried to sleep but had lain awake,
the
words of the note echoing in her head. Someone wanted to cut Leah’s throat. Someone out there had her little girl and he
– or she, although she was sure a woman wasn’t capable of such cruelty – was willing to kill the daughter she had given birth
to and raised; was willing to take a precious life for money.

There was no doubt in Suzy’s mind. The ransom had to be paid and paid quickly. Leah had to be brought home safe. Darren hadn’t
said much but it seemed that now he knew Brad wasn’t involved – that this thing was for real – he had come to agree with her.
He had changed his mind too about calling the police in. Maybe it was better, he said, to obey the kidnapper’s instructions
after all. Why take the risk of antagonising the bastard who was holding his daughter?

Brad Williams’s was the only dissenting voice. He stated his case clearly and everything he said would probably have made
sense to anyone who wasn’t emotionally involved. Once the first ransom’s paid, kidnappers usually up the ante. They keep hold
of their hostage and demand more. They bleed you white and there’s no guarantee whatsoever that the hostage will be released
while he or she is playing the part of human cash machine. Leah, Brad claimed, would be killed anyway once she had outlived
her usefulness. The only sensible course of action was to call in the police. They had experience. They had ways of tracing
these people. They’d know exactly what to do.

Brad ignored Suzy’s protestations that the note had forbidden any contact with the police. If Suzy and Darren didn’t call
them, he’d do it himself.

But the combined forces of Suzy and Darren prevented Brad from making the call. The image in the note of Leah’s throat being
cut was too strong to be overcome by common sense. Reluctantly, Brad agreed to wait and see what happened. The call could
come any time. They wouldn’t do anything hasty.

Brad had taken charge of domestic arrangements. He had called up the cleaner, the cook and the gardener, saying that their
services wouldn’t be required that day but they’d still be paid. Then he had made toast, which still remained soggy and cold
in the kitchen. Nobody felt like eating. The three of them sat there, sipping coffee they could hardly taste, watching the
telephone, willing it to ring.

And when the sound of the instrument finally pierced the silence, it was Suzy who grabbed the receiver, tears in her eyes.

* * *

Neil Watson gazed down at the bones that had been laid out on a table in the vestry. He had assured John Ventnor that this
was a purely temporary arrangement, promising that he would take them to the mortuary as soon as he received the go-ahead
from Dr Bowman.

He wondered whether to call Wesley. If the skeleton had been discovered anywhere but in a graveyard – and in a tomb whose
date was certain beyond any doubt – he would have notified the police. But in this case, although foul play was almost certain,
the fact that the body was more than seventy years old, meant any interest Wesley had in them would be personal rather than
professional.

And the same went for the pathologist, Dr Colin Bowman. The St Merion’s skeleton, Juanita Bentham’s companion in death, wasn’t
really his concern. However, Neil had always lived by the principle that if you don’t ask, you don’t get and he made a call
to Colin anyway. But he was to be disappointed.