The Shroud Maker (23 page)

‘Remember you asked whether Chris Butcher was in Tradmouth when Jenny Bercival disappeared?’

Wesley looked up and saw Trish Walton standing by his desk. ‘Well?’

‘He was definitely here. He always comes down for the festival.’

Wesley thanked Trish and rose from his seat, intending to make for Gerry’s office.

Normally Gerry flung his office door open as soon as he arrived at work because he hated being isolated from the heart of things. He liked to watch the team through his glass windows and pick up on any developing ripple of news. But now his door was shut which meant that he must have slipped out. Wesley wondered where he was.

He sat down again and skimmed through the details of the Kassia Graylem case, looking for anything to connect her with Butcher, until his thoughts were interrupted by Gerry’s return. As Wesley greeted him he noticed that the DCI’s cheeks had turned an unhealthy shade of red as if he’d been rushing.

He put a hand on the back of a nearby chair to steady himself while he caught his breath. After a few seconds he spoke. ‘A word, Wes. My office.’

Wesley followed him in and shut the door behind him. Whatever Gerry had to say, it wasn’t for everybody’s ears.

‘I had a call from our Sam earlier.’

Wesley could see the strain on the boss’s face. He was usually the first to make a joke of things, to lighten every situation with a quip. It was his way of dealing with the stress of the job and this new solemnity was out of character. He waited for him to continue.

‘Our Rosie asked him to meet her from the concert last night – said she didn’t want to go home alone. She’s been staying at his cottage because she’s been too scared to go back to her flat in Morbay. Sam says she’s frightened of someone but she won’t say who it is. Why hasn’t she said anything to me, Wes?’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to worry you.’

‘I am worried. I can’t help it.’

Wesley was imagining how he’d feel if Amelia found herself in the same situation one day. He’d move heaven and earth to keep her safe from harm. Rosie Heffernan didn’t make life easy for those who cared about her, and now it looked as if she’d got herself into some sort of fix.

Before Wesley could say anything, the phone rang on Gerry’s desk. It was the Marine Unit. They’d taken two men into custody, one of whom CID had expressed interest in. The two had been taken to Bloxham police station and their boat had been impounded. Did Gerry want to come over and question them after the Marine Unit had finished with them?

Gerry put the speakerphone on so Wesley could listen in to the conversation.

‘Have these men got names?’ Gerry asked, slightly impatient.

‘Dennis Dobbs and Jason Teague,’ was the reply.

Gerry raised his fist in triumph. At least one of their lost sheep had come back into the fold.

There was a new report on Rachel’s desk. Someone must have put it there while she’d been out taking Julie Darwell to view her husband’s body. When she read it, she felt a new thrill of hope.

She hesitated before approaching Wesley, who was at his desk talking on his phone in a hushed voice. The conversation sounded private so she hovered there waiting for him to finish.

She heard him say, ‘I’ve got to go now. A suspect’s been picked up in Bloxham. I’ll try not to be too late but you know how it is.’ Then a hushed ‘’Bye,’ in that way people do when they’re reluctant to end a call. He was talking to Pam and she felt a stab of envy, so strong it surprised her.

‘How’s Mrs Darwell?’ he asked as soon as he’d put the receiver down.

‘She’s gone back to the B&B with the family liaison officer,’ Rachel answered, fingering the report in her hand. ‘Someone’s spoken to Kassia’s tutor at London University. He says she was heavily into early music. Even blamed it for her dropping out.’

‘No mention of a man? William de Clare?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve asked for a list of staff who were there at the time. Who knows, de Clare might be one of her tutors.’

‘Good. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Suffolk police have sent through the report on the Graylems’ accident. It happened at the harbour in Southwold. The Graylems’ boat had been moored there for about ten days. There was an investigation at the time and it looks as if a gas pipe came adrift so when Kassia’s dad lit a cigarette the boat went up. They didn’t stand a chance. Kassia should have gone aboard at the same time as her parents but she had a new camera and she stopped to take some pictures while they went on ahead. She was lucky not to have been killed.’

‘Any suspicion that the gas pipe had been tampered with?’

‘The investigation didn’t rule it out but it was thought that in all likelihood it was a tragic accident. Luckily the boat in the neighbouring mooring had sailed off half an hour earlier or there might have been more casualties.’

‘Who owned that?’

She consulted the report. ‘The Wentworths – father and teenage son. They were traced and interviewed but they couldn’t provide much information.’

‘Anything there about the Graylems?’

‘Seems they kept themselves to themselves and were described as being a bit New Age. But it was the school holidays and Kassia used to mix with some of the other teenagers.’

‘What about witnesses?’

‘The main witnesses were a middle-aged couple called the Bethams. They had a boat nearby and they took Kassia in afterwards. They said the Graylems had taken their boat out that morning and before they left they’d heard some kind of argument. Raised voices.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all there is in the report.’

She handed the sheet of paper to Wesley who studied it for a few moments. ‘The accident might have nothing to do with Kassia’s death but I’d still like to trace all the people who were there.’

Rachel said nothing. Sometimes, in her opinion, Wesley could be easily sidetracked. She’d delegate the job to one of the most junior DCs: it would be good practice.

Suddenly she heard Trish’s voice. ‘Sir, it’s the Shipworld website. You should have a look.’

Rachel watched as Wesley hurried to Trish’s desk. She had been staring at her computer and now she pushed her office chair back so Wesley could get a good view of the screen.

After a few moments he summoned Rachel over and what she saw made her catch her breath. A shadowy grave dug in some large indoor space, possibly a cellar. The grave yawned to receive the dead woman who was lying beside the hole; a woman in a blue gown similar to the one Kassia was wearing when she died. She looked as though she was asleep with her hands folded neatly on her stomach and a long single plait of auburn hair arranged over her left shoulder. But it was the looming figure standing over her who caught Rachel’s attention. It was certainly a man. Tall, with a long black cloak, and a face hidden behind a blank white mask with two dark holes for the eyes. Such an image would scare any child. It made her feel uneasy and she was a police officer.

There was a caption beneath the picture.
The Shroud Maker buries Alicia’s body
.

So this creature with no face was the Shroud Maker, the villain of Shipworld. And whoever was in charge of the fantasy world had obviously used the grave she’d heard had been discovered at Butcher’s house as a basis for the continuing story. Since the website was Chris Butcher’s baby and he’d know all about what had been found at the dig, he’d probably passed the information on to his creative team; a team that included Miles Carthage. Even though the image was shocking, it hardly came as a surprise.

Wesley thanked Trish and Rachel watched as he went off to share the news with Gerry.

When Wesley and Gerry arrived in Bloxham they parked at the police station near the quayside. Bloxham was still a working fishing port and the scent of that morning’s catch hung in the air.

Gerry made straight for the office of the Marine Unit on the ground floor and let himself in without knocking, introducing himself as he stepped into the room.

A uniformed officer who’d been sitting at his desk typing into his computer stood up and held out his hand. ‘Gerry, long time no see. I believe we’ve got a couple of your customers down in the custody suite.’ He sat down and invited the two men to do likewise.

‘I don’t think you two have met,’ said Gerry. ‘This is DI Wesley Peterson. Wes, this is Bob Nairn, Inspector in charge of the Marine Unit.’

The man shook Wesley’s hand heartily. It was the kind of handshake that almost breaks your fingers and Wesley had to stop himself from wincing.

‘So what happened?’ Gerry asked as he made himself comfortable on one of the visitors’ chairs.

Bob sat down and leaned forward as if he was sharing a confidence. ‘We’d had intelligence to say there was going to be a drop from a Russian cargo ship. Heritage stuff. Religious mainly and undoubtedly nicked.’

‘Why weren’t we informed?’ said Gerry. His tone was pleasant but Wesley had known him long enough to detect an edge of annoyance.

‘Smuggling’s more our concern than yours, Gerry. You know that.’

‘Yeah drugs, arms and all that but old artefacts…’ He looked at Wesley. ‘Wes here’s a bit of an expert. Used to be in the Art and Antiques Squad at the Met.’

‘Well if we’d known that we would have informed you right away,’ Bob replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. ‘Look, if we hadn’t had word you wanted to interview one of the characters we picked up in connection with your murder case, we might not even have got round to informing you at all so be grateful.’

Gerry raised his hands, a gesture of appeasement. ‘OK, I get your point. What was this intelligence you had?’

‘A lot of Eastern European antiques of dubious provenance have been appearing on the market and word had it the stuff was being brought in by ship and picked up by small boats at various parts of the coast. It was Falmouth last month but we heard they were moving on to Tradmouth. Probably because the Palkin Festival would be a good cover. Lots of strangers about and plenty going on to distract the harbour master and ourselves. A fisherman spotted some strange marker buoys some way out to sea and we’ve been keeping an eye on them. Then earlier on the pick-up was made. Statues and icons in waterproof packaging sitting in lobster pots. Neat operation.’

‘What about Dobbs and Teague?’

‘Dobbs says it’s a misunderstanding but we’re wise to him. His name’s come up in several Met investigations, mostly drug-related, but they’ve never been able to pin anything on him.’

‘What about Teague?’

‘He’s still protesting his innocence and swearing he didn’t know what Dobbs was up to. He almost had me convinced. Guy deserves an Oscar. Nothing’s known about him; he hasn’t got a record. Mind you, that might just mean he hasn’t been caught before.’

‘Can we see them?’ Wesley asked. Bob Nairn obviously saw himself as God’s gift to policing and his attitude was beginning to get on Wesley’s nerves.

Bob shrugged. ‘We’ve finished with them for now so I don’t see why not.’

Gerry led the way down to the custody suite, older and shabbier than Tradmouth’s and regularly filled with fishermen who’d taken to settling disputes with their fists after overdoing the drinking on a Saturday night. The windowless interview room was lit by a strip light and there was a slight smell of fish, maybe drifting in from the quay nearby. After a few minutes Wesley found he no longer noticed it. They’d decided to start with Jason Teague and as he walked into the room with a uniformed constable he looked positively relieved to see them.

Teague gave them little apart from protestations of innocence. He’d known Dobbs was up to something but he’d no idea what it was or that it was illegal. Wesley thought that if he was telling the truth, he must be very naïve: unlikely for a man who spent his time working on rich men’s yachts. Teague must have seen all sorts, even if he’d learned to ignore most of it in the interests of discretion.

They kept Dobbs until last and before they spoke to him, Wesley put in a call to an old friend at the Met to ask if they were aware of the antiquity smuggling operation. The friend was more than happy to talk and said the Met had heard whispers of what Dobbs was up to and would be delighted if he’d put a foot wrong at last. He was a slippery customer with some powerful mates who’d always managed to keep a few steps ahead of the police. Wes and his colleagues had done well, the Met officer said without resentment. Wesley didn’t let on that he hadn’t been responsible for the arrest and he wasn’t sure whether this was because he’d taken a dislike to Bob Nairn or because he just couldn’t be bothered with a long explanation. Either way, he didn’t feel too guilty about the omission.