The Shroud Maker (12 page)

‘Whoever sent this not only knows your address in London but also where you’re staying here in Tradmouth.’

‘He must have followed me here. He must be watching me,’ she said, her eyes wide with panic.

Gerry unfolded the paper and began to read. ‘“
JENNY
IS
STILL
ALIVE
AND
WELL
.
SEEK
AND
YOU
SHALL
FIND
.”’ He pursed his lips and exhaled. ‘Short and sweet.’

‘What does it mean?’

Gerry didn’t answer.

‘Have you seen that ship?’ she said. ‘The old one.’

‘You mean the
Maudelayne,
the replica medieval ship moored at the embankment?’ said Gerry.

‘It’s just like Jenny’s tattoo.’

‘Yes,’ said Wesley. ‘You mentioned the tattoo.’ He hesitated, wondering how to introduce the subject of Kassia. There was a long silence and he realised he couldn’t delay the moment any more. ‘Someone came round to tell you about the body that was found floating in a dinghy on the river.’

The woman nodded.

‘We’ve discovered that her name was Kassia Graylem and that she was a musician. She had a similar tattoo to Jenny’s so we…’ He searched for the right words. ‘We were wondering whether there might be some sort of connection. Have you heard the name before?’

‘No. I’m sure I haven’t.’

‘Is there anything, anything at all that you can think of that might help us? Something that might have seemed unimportant at the time?’

She shook her head in despair. ‘I wish I could help but I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘What about Jenny’s friends?’

‘All her friends were spoken to when she disappeared. But…’ Her voice sounded tentative, as though she wasn’t sure it was something she should mention.

‘But what?’

‘Well Jenny used to be close to her cousin, Karen. She moved to Canada a few months before Jenny went missing but they kept in touch.’

‘How? By e-mail? Phone?’

‘E-mail. After Jenny went missing the police looked through her e-mails but they couldn’t find anything relevant. But I remember Jenny rang Karen during the week before we came down here. I don’t think I mentioned it to the police at the time because I didn’t think it was important.’

‘Have you asked Karen what Jenny said?’

‘I called her after Jenny… left, but she didn’t say much and I’m wondering now whether there was something she didn’t want me to know. I can’t be sure though. You imagine all sorts. Grasp at any possibilities.’

‘I understand,’ said Wesley. Karen’s caginess might have been in Mrs Bercival’s imagination but it was worth the effort of a long-distance phone call. They had nothing to lose.

After providing Karen’s contact details, Mrs Bercival showed them to the door, looking as though all the ills of the world had descended on her shoulders. Kassia had been murdered so if the two cases were linked, the chances that Jenny was still alive were looking slim. And there was something about the letters that bothered him. Something that didn’t quite ring true.

On the way back to the police station Wesley passed several knights in chain mail, a gaggle of surprisingly clean peasants and several gentlemen of ample proportions wearing tights, tunics and floppy velvet hats that had been the height of style in the fifteenth century. All preparing for another evening of festivity.

The festival would last until the following Sunday and he was sick of it already. But the news Rachel Tracey had for them on their return to the incident room cheered him up no end. As soon as she spotted them at the door she left her desk, bristling with untold information. Wesley knew that whatever she had to say was important. Rachel wasn’t the sort to fuss about nothing.

‘There’s been a development,’ she said. ‘Alf Higgs who runs the castle ferry had been having engine trouble so he was checking the boat out at the embankment at quarter to six on Saturday morning before he was due to start work. The ferry ties up about seventy feet away from the jetty where the
Queen Philippa
’s moored.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Gerry who was only too familiar with the little red clinker-built ferry with the outboard motor which plied between the town and the castle from spring till autumn. And, in common with most long-term residents of Tradmouth, he knew Alf Higgs. The ferryman was in his sixties and had been born and brought up in the town. His outdoor life had wizened his skin and his constant encounters with humanity had bestowed on him an air of world-weary amusement. The general consensus of opinion was that Alf was a wise man… especially after several pints of best bitter in the Star.

‘Alf says he saw the victim walking along the embankment. He noticed her particularly because of her dress. And the fact that she was carrying a violin.’

‘This was quarter to six in the morning?’

‘Give or take ten minutes or so.’

Wesley looked at Gerry. ‘Her viol hasn’t been found. I presume that’s the “violin” she was seen carrying.’

‘There’s a CCTV camera on that part of the embankment,’ said Gerry with a hopeful gleam in his eye. ‘Get all the footage checked to see if anyone else was around at the time. This could be the breakthrough we need.’

With both children occupied with their respective friends and Wesley not expected home till late, Pam Peterson wasn’t sure how best to take advantage of her freedom. Should she do something improving and uplifting? Or should she fritter away her time on idleness and relaxation? She decided on the latter.

She turned on her computer. There was something she wanted to look at, something Della had mentioned when she’d phoned for a chat that morning. Something Wesley had been asking about. She typed in the word Shipworld and perused the results. When she was satisfied that she’d found the right website, she brought it up on her screen.

The first thing that struck her was how colourful and lavishly presented it was. She soon found herself reading a story but, because the characters were unfamiliar, she scrolled backwards, trying to pick up the narrative.

Palkin was there. Controlling Shipworld and thwarting his adversary, the Shroud Maker, a shadowy figure wearing what looked like a white ski mask, a faceless monster who lurked in the background of the story making mischief for Palkin and his followers. Palkin himself appeared to be a cross between Falstaff and a superhero – a jolly ale-swilling sea captain with miraculous powers, the scourge of enemy shipping and upholder of all that was good in Shipworld. She read on and discovered that some of the content was fairly violent, describing torture and gruesome murder in a detail she could have done without.

It bore all the usual hallmarks of fantasy fiction. There were strange sea creatures, malevolent elves who inhabited caves in the cliffs below the castle and wraith-like maidens who had died and went to inhabit the realm of the half-dead, eternal prisoners of the Shroud Maker and his minions. She was a little disappointed to see that, apart from the main character sharing his name with a real person, it bore no resemblance whatsoever to the genuine history of Tradmouth.

After a while she began to find the whole thing tedious and at that point even checking her e-mails seemed more attractive. She was just about to log out of Shipworld when something caught her eye: the Death of Alicia. She clicked on the relevant words and a picture came up, a florid and professionally executed illustration, filling the screen.

A young woman with flowing auburn locks was lying in the bottom of a boat, her blue gown artistically arranged about her slender body. The boat appeared to be floating on open water and she stared upwards at the stars, an expression of desperate sadness on her flawless features. Around her neck a rope was pulled tight, crossed over at the front. The woman was clearly dead, strangled like the victim in Wesley’s investigation.

Printed beneath the picture in bold lettering were the words ‘Alicia has betrayed the Shroud Maker. She has entered the Realm of the Dead where the Birds of Morven shall peck out her lovely eyes.’

Pam picked up the phone and dialled Wesley’s number.

There was to be another rehearsal that night. Rosie Heffernan thought it unnecessary but Dan Hungerford reckoned there’d been too many mistakes in Palkin’s Musik’s last performance. They’d managed to cover for Kassia’s absence but only just.

Rosie was beginning to wish she’d never got involved with Palkin’s Musik. She’d thought it would be fun to create music again rather than trying to teach the rudiments to recalcitrant kids – but she hadn’t reckoned on Dan being so exacting. She wished she was spending her half-term holiday mooching around and going out with her mates instead.

She returned to her flat in Morbay, wondering how she was going to get through that evening’s rehearsal without saying something she’d regret. She let herself in the front door of the large Victorian villa that had once housed one prosperous family but was now divided into eight small flats. Hers was on the ground floor at the back overlooking the garden. She loved the view but she liked even better the fact that she now had a place of her own, especially since her dad had taken up with Fat Joyce, that simpering woman who always tried far too hard to be her friend. She knew Fat Joyce was trying to take her mum’s place but she never could. Sam might be soft but Rosie wouldn’t allow it. Never.

She opened her post box in the hall only to find two items of junk mail and a bank statement. She tore the latter open and stared at the numbers. More bad news. Then she fumbled for the right key and let herself into her flat. There were three hours before Harry was due to pick her up for the rehearsal. Time to put something mind-chilling on the TV, make herself something to eat and relax.

Once inside, she flung her shoulder bag down on the floor with relief. She was home.

All the doors leading off the tiny hallway were closed so it was dark. But instead of reaching for the light switch she put her hand out to open the living-room door. As soon as that door was open, daylight would flood in to overwhelm the darkness. Everything would be as it should be.

She pushed it open, expecting light, only to find the curtains were shut. And she remembered quite clearly flinging them open that morning.

The creak of her bedroom door’s unoiled hinges was unmistakable. It was something she hardly noticed during the day although she heard it every night when she went to the bathroom. The door was opening slowly, moved by an unseen hand, and although she knew she ought to rush out into the entrance hall and call for help, her body was paralysed by fear.

This couldn’t be happening. Not in her own home. Her refuge.

Wesley stared at the picture of the dead Alicia in her floating coffin which had appeared since he’d last looked at the Shipworld website. Pam had been right about the similarity to Kassia Graylem’s murder. The only difference was that the illustration on the website was a sanitised image. The dead woman lay neatly in the clinker-built boat, her face serene and beautiful, as if she was merely sleeping, quite unlike the twisted, contorted face of the real victim. Apart from this, it was a fairly accurate depiction of the truth. Which meant it had to be a lead.

Wesley was the first to admit that investigating the origins of websites was beyond him, but he knew somebody who could get to the heart of the mystery. He put in a call to Tom from Scientific Support and left it with him.

Sam Heffernan had just finished a day’s work. It had been an especially tough one. In the morning he’d had to inform a heartbroken owner that her beloved Labrador had an incurable tumour, and in the afternoon he’d had to break the news to a farmer that three of his prize cows had tested positive for TB. He was glad the day was over.