The Shroud Maker (22 page)

Chris Butcher had stayed to watch, whispering to Sacha as if they were old friends sharing a secret. There was no mistaking the fact that he was flirting with her, and that she seemed quite pleased about it.

Dave had resumed work at the other end of the site with the rest of the team, leaving Neil to deal with Sacha and the bones. Neil felt slightly envious because they had found more nice medieval walls near the boundary with the road and some well-preserved coins dating to the reign of Richard II. He wanted to be back at the centre of things.

It was ten in the morning and now the circus of the crime-scene investigation had left for the time being, he had a chance to think. He was beginning to form a mental picture of what the site had looked like back in the Middle Ages. There would have been a tall house, probably three storeys if Tradmouth’s surviving medieval houses were anything to judge by. It would most likely have been half-timbered with strong stone foundations and an upper storey jutting out over the street, and spacious, double-fronted with a small inner courtyard. A house worthy of Tradmouth’s most prominent citizen at the zenith of the port’s wealth.

The business side of the operation would have stood behind the impressive dwelling, hidden from the view of envious neighbours but accessible from the river. They had already found evidence of a jetty behind the warehouse building: stumps of ancient timbers protruding from the river bed at low tide. Palkin would have unloaded his ships there and the goods would have gone straight into the warehouse which had probably been constructed from roughly hewn stone.

But did the two bodies buried within the walls of the warehouse date back to John Palkin’s day or were they far more recent? Once Sacha Vale had completed her work in the lab things would be clearer.

Wesley had told him about the missing girl. And they’d found two graves of uncertain vintage so no wonder the Forensic team were crawling all over the site like ants, getting in his way.

He was concentrating hard on uncovering the pelvis of the second skeleton so that it could be lifted when the sound of Butcher’s voice made him jump. As Neil looked up he saw him standing on the edge of the trench.

‘You seem to be getting on well with Sacha,’ said Neil innocently.

Butcher squatted down, lowering his voice. ‘Whatever you do, don’t mention it to Astrid if you see her. I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea.’

Neil shrugged and returned to his task. If Butcher wanted to play away from home, that was up to him. And he wouldn’t wish Sacha on his worst enemy.

Butcher spoke again, louder this time. ‘I never really expected to find them.’

‘Find what?’

‘The bodies.’

‘You know who they are?’

Butcher gave a secretive smile. ‘Let’s just say I have my suspicions.’

Wesley was glad to be back in Tradmouth, relieved that he would soon be able to pass Julie Darwell on to someone else. Rachel had tried to speak to the victim’s widow during the journey but had received only monosyllabic answers.

Once Rachel had taken Julie off to the B&B she’d managed to book for her – a fortunate late cancellation – Wesley had made for the police station, glad of the chance to stretch his legs after the long drive. The weather was dull outside, threatening rain, and the town seemed quieter now than it did a few days ago. But he was sure that come the weekend, the grand finale of the Palkin Festival, everything would step up a gear once again. After that the people of Tradmouth could get their town back until the holiday season began in earnest.

As he walked into the office Paul Johnson stood up to greet him, unfolding himself from an office chair that seemed slightly too small for him. He looked excited.

Before he could say anything, however, Gerry emerged from his office, beaming as if he was delighted to see him back.

‘Wes. How did it go? Has Rach taken Mrs Darwell to the mortuary?’

‘She’s taken her to the B&B and then they’re going to the hospital.’

‘Good. Come and have a look at what I’ve got,’ he said with a hint of mischief as he led Wesley into his office. On his desk lay a battered black instrument case swathed in clear plastic.

‘Kassia Graylem’s?’

‘This Andre Gorst character I told you about had it hidden in his cabin on the
Maudelayne
. Claimed he’d just come across it in the bushes near the public lavs and helped himself. Sounds like a fairy tale to me. Gorst’s gone missing but all patrols are on the lookout for him.’

‘What about prints?’

‘Only Gorst’s and the other members of the crew who handled it.’

‘Nobody else’s? Not even Kassia’s?’

He shook his head. ‘I ran Gorst’s prints through the database and he’s got two convictions for assault. Both women. One in Bristol and one in London. Someone’s spoken to the Bristol woman and she said Gorst’s bad news. He lost his temper and knocked her about so she reported him.’

‘And the London victim?’

‘Couldn’t trace her. I’ve got a feeling it won’t be long before he turns up,’ Gerry added optimistically.

‘Anything else?’

‘We’ve found three William de Clares who are in the right age range to be Kassia Graylem’s lover but so far none of them fits with what you were told by Lisa up in Manchester. But there are a couple we haven’t checked so don’t give up hope just yet.’ He paused. ‘And I had the Shipworld website checked as you suggested and when it first started there was a character called William de Clare who was a handsome seducer of women.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘If it’s not his real name then this bloke must really fancy himself. You didn’t bring Kassia’s granny down with you?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘She didn’t want to come. I think there’s been a lot of bad feeling in that family. She said she didn’t get on with Kassia’s father and I got the impression she resented being landed with the girl after the parents’ accident.’

‘So how did she take the news?’

‘I think it might take some time for the full implications to sink in.’ Wesley sighed. ‘Kassia Graylem’s still a bit of an enigma. Even her friend, Lisa, didn’t know much about her relationship with William de Clare. And if you don’t confide in your friends…’

‘We still have to find a link between Kassia and Jenny.’ Gerry frowned.

‘Well, they were both heavily into this Palkin thing and they had long auburn hair – the Pre Raphaelite look.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe they had Andre Gorst in common.’

‘He certainly spends a lot of time in London where they both lived and he was always here for the festival. The woman he attacked in Bristol was a redhead apparently so perhaps he goes for that type.’

‘But why go to the trouble of wiping Kassia’s prints off the viol case and leave his own?’

‘I’ve given up guessing how the criminal mind works, Wes. Their logic isn’t always the same as ours.’

‘What about the similarity to the Shipworld story? Presumably Gorst has nothing to do with Chris Butcher or the website.’

‘Not that we know of. But there must be lots of people out there obsessed by this Shipworld phenomenon. Like
Star Trek
or
Dr Who
– there are thousands of fans and they even have conventions.’

‘If those bones Neil found do belong to Jenny, then who does the other skeleton belong to? Have any other young women gone missing round here in recent years who might fit the bill?’

Before Gerry could answer, Wesley’s phone rang. The display showed it was Neil. He pressed the key to answer the call.

‘Any news?’

It was a few seconds before Neil spoke. ‘Still waiting for Sacha’s verdict. It’s frustrating to be so dependent on her say-so. She treats everyone like amateurs. I think even Colin was a bit miffed by her attitude. There’s only one person she seems to get on with and that’s Chris Butcher. He makes it so obvious he fancies her, it’s embarrassing. Anyway, he reckons he might know who the skeletons belong to.’

Wesley pressed the receiver to his ear. ‘Jenny Bercival and someone we haven’t traced yet?’

‘No. He thinks they could be Alice Trencham and Hawise Neston, the second and third wives of John Palkin. He says Alice vanished in thirteen eighty-eight and Hawise disappeared eight years later in thirteen ninety-six.’

Wesley said nothing for a while, taking the information in. If what Neil told him was right, it would ease their workload. Fourteenth-century murders were none of his concern. But this information came from Chris Butcher so who was to say it wasn’t a smokescreen; diversion tactics to cover something more sinister.

‘Can you do me a favour, Neil? Can you check out this story about Palkin’s wives, just to make sure Butcher isn’t having us on.’

Neil hesitated. ‘I did a bit of research about Palkin before the dig began and I must say I didn’t come across anything like that. He was married several times but that wasn’t that uncommon in those days when people died of simple infections and women didn’t survive childbirth. He might have just been unlucky.’

‘Or he might have buried his unwanted wives under the floor of his warehouse.’

‘Still doesn’t explain why the ground seems to have been disturbed more recently.’ He paused. ‘Butcher says there’s a book about Palkin written by a Victorian scholar called Josiah Palkin-Wright. I think he’s got a copy so I’ll have to ask him nicely.’ He hesitated. ‘I looked Palkin-Wright up on the internet and there were rumours that his wife disappeared in mysterious circumstances as well, as did her sister.’

‘Let me know as soon as Sacha comes up with a date, won’t you?’

Wesley heard Gerry clearing his throat impatiently. It was time to return to the present day.

It’s good to have useful mates and Jonathan Petworth was as useful as they came, Jason Teague thought as he cast off from the jetty at Bloxham. At first Jonathan had told him that all the charter boats were booked up. It was always the same during Palkin Week, he’d said. Visitors come down to Tradmouth and decide to take a boat out because they see all the activity on the river and want to be a part of it. But today someone had changed their mind so one had become available.

The cabin cruiser was called
Freedom
, which seemed appropriate because if this came off, his share would give him the freedom to do whatever he liked. He could continue travelling, crewing on other people’s yachts, preferably in the warmth of the Mediterranean. Or he could stay here in Devon as Jonathan’s business partner and become a man of standing in the community. He had the choice. Control over his own fate without having to rely on his father’s hand-outs.

He stood at the wheel and as the boat chugged across the harbour he could feel the cool breeze biting into his flesh. Not like the warm gentle winds of the Med.

He’d arranged to pick Den up at a small jetty near the sea wall. Den hadn’t wanted to venture into the bustling main harbour because there were too many yachtsmen and fishermen about, and too many CCTV cameras hidden high up on buildings and lampposts. Den knew they were looking for him so he couldn’t take any risks.

Jason spotted him waiting on the jetty, an old wooden structure jutting out into the water, hardly used these days. He looked more conspicuous there alone than he would have done mingling with the crowds on the quayside but Jason said nothing and helped him aboard the boat. As he jumped on to the deck Jason saw that his face was ashen, as though he’d spent the last few days in a windowless police cell. But Jason knew this wasn’t so. Den had been lying low in some unspecified locality when he’d called – he hadn’t told him where.

‘Let’s go,’ Den said in a low growl Jason could barely hear over the wind and the noise of the engine. ‘I’ve given you the position.’

Jason wanted to get this over with. He wanted his share. Above all, what he wanted was never to see Dennis Dobbs again.

He knew he had to take care as he rounded Fortress Point because the rocks below the waves were lethal and many a ship had come to grief here over the centuries. He needed to concentrate but he was aware of Den standing behind him, restless and jumpy.

‘You sure you know where you’re going?’

Jason didn’t bother answering the question. He’d studied the chart and knew exactly where he was heading. But he couldn’t banish the fear that some overenthusiastic local fisherman might have got there before them and claimed a catch that would keep him in comfort for the rest of his life.

They were further out now and Jason could see an oil tanker crawling over the horizon. Then he spotted the blue marker buoy bobbing on the waves.

He cut the engine and nodded to Den. He needed help to haul the thing on board. Den just stood there staring.

‘Give me a hand then.’ Jason said, irritated at the man’s inactivity. He’d had enough of Dennis Dobbs with his big talk and big promises.

Reluctantly, Dobbs leaned over the side and began to pull. The boat was listing, dancing up and down on the waves as if she was trying to prevent them retrieving the thing in the water. It was coming now though: the first lobster pot. Jason could see plastic inside, glistening in the weak sunlight. After a great deal of effort they landed it on deck and Den stood looking at it, breathless and triumphant.

‘One down, two to go.’

Jason restarted the engine before steering the boat thirty yards to the next blue buoy. They didn’t speak as they repeated the process. One more to go then it was over.

But just as they reached the third buoy, Jason looked round and saw a dark-blue-and-white launch approaching fast. It looked very like the police launch he’d seen moored up in the harbour at Tradmouth.