The Skeleton Room (13 page)

He looked at Wesley with well-controlled disdain. ‘You
were enquiring about one of our guests . . . sir?’ The accent was cut glass, the tone sneering. Policemen, and black policemen
at that, should know their place.

But Wesley wasn’t going to rise to the bait. ‘Not a guest exactly. The lady might have been here in the tearoom last Friday
afternoon.’ He noticed that the man was holding the picture of Sally by the corner, as if it were something dirty. ‘Do you
recognise her from the photograph? She was wearing a red T-shirt and cream trousers.’

‘I believe I did see her last Friday.’

‘Only believe?’ Heffernan growled from the undergrowth. ‘Did she come in here or didn’t she?’

Wesley detected a sudden flash of alarm in the head waiter’s eyes. Hitherto the boss had kept in the background but now he
was sitting forward in full view. He pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at the man, who was trying hard to maintain
his icy demeanour. Wesley suspected that there was some history between these two.

‘We think a woman was murdered near this hotel, sunshine. If I liked I could order this place to be torn apart. Now was she
here or wasn’t she?’

The head waiter knew when he was beaten. ‘Yes. She was here. She sat at that table over there.’ He pointed to a table by the
window, a table that had a panoramic view of the sea.

‘Was she with anyone?’

‘No. She was on her own. But she kept looking at her watch as though she was afraid of being late for something.’

‘But if she was expecting to meet someone they didn’t turn up?’

‘No. Unless she’d arranged to meet them somewhere else.’ The man looked at Wesley, a little uncertain of how to treat him.

‘Did you serve her?’

‘No. I was at the desk. I always keep an eye on things from there when I’m sorting out the evening bookings and
menus. Lilly actually served her.’

‘Then can we talk to Lilly?’ Wesley asked, trying to hide his impatience.

‘Of course.’ The head waiter nodded to the girl, who scurried off through a door marked ‘Private’.

‘Are you sure that she was alone?’

‘Yes. I remember that quite clearly.’

‘Did you watch her the whole time she was here?’

The waiter looked quite offended. ‘Of course not. It was a very busy time. I had things to do. The manager was in an important
meeting so I had to arrange the refreshments for that too.’

‘And you didn’t see or hear anything suspicious that day, anything out of the ordinary?’

The man shook his head and Wesley told him he could go.

‘Do you know him?’ Wesley asked as soon as the head waiter was out of earshot.

‘Know him? I’ll never forget him. I brought Kathy here on our wedding anniversary one year and he humiliated me. He said I
couldn’t come in his poxy restaurant because I hadn’t got a jacket and tie on. Sent us away like a couple of naughty kids
and we ended up eating fish and chips on the harbour at Millicombe.’ A grin spread across his face. ‘It didn’t half give him
a turn when I showed my warrant card, though. It was almost worth it to see the look on his face. If Kathy was still . . .’
His voice trailed off.

Before Wesley could think of anything to say, a tall woman appeared. He guessed she was considerably older than the head waiter,
probably the longest-serving member of staff. She stooped slightly and, in the same black-and-white outfit as her young colleague,
reminded Wesley of a vulture he’d once seen at the zoo.

‘I’m Lilly. Mr Broadbent said you wanted to see me.’

‘That’s right. Please sit down.’ Wesley smiled to put her at her ease before asking her the same questions as he had asked
her colleagues.

But this time they were in luck. Lilly remembered the lady all right. She’d ordered a cream tea and Lilly had the impression
that she was early for some sort of appointment – killing time. Lilly had wondered whether she was meeting a man as she had
been wearing what Lilly considered to be rather a lot of make-up. And perfume – the expensive stuff. But in spite of the designer
clothes, in Lilly’s opinion she’d been a bit common really – more money than class. But then a lot of them that came to the
hotel these days were like that: not like the old days.

Wesley allowed her to talk, speaking only when the flow dried up. ‘Did you see her with anybody else at any point? Please
think hard.’ He gave Lilly what he considered to be his most appealing smile.

Lilly wrinkled her beak-like nose. ‘Now you come to mention it, when she left I watched her go. She’d left me a rather generous
tip. Now as I remember she reached the hotel entrance and stopped. I could see her from where I was. She was standing next
to someone and I’m sure she was speaking to them.’

‘How long for? Where did they go?’

Lilly looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry. A couple came into the tearoom and I had to take their order. I didn’t see. I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve been very helpful.’ There was never any harm in a bit of encouragement. ‘Can you describe the person she was talking
to?’

The nose wrinkled again. ‘I didn’t actually see the person. It was more of . . . more of an impression. They were wearing
a hat and I thought . . .’

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward, awaiting the verdict.

‘I might be wrong but I thought . . . I thought it could be a man.’

‘Well, that narrows it down a bit,’ muttered Gerry Heffernan, raising his eyes to heaven.

The call came through at midday. They had received
confirmation from Forensic that the blood and hair found on the rocks beneath the disturbed cliff top on Monks Island definitely
belonged to Sally Gilbert, and one of her red shoes had been found tangled in seaweed in the water below. After organising
all available officers to interview everyone working or staying on the island and ordering a thorough search, Gerry Heffernan
decided it was time to return to Tradmouth.

Wesley drove back through the narrow, hedge-lined lanes with Gerry Heffernan slumped in the passenger seat, deep in thought.
It wasn’t until they had reached the outskirts of Tradmouth that he broke the silence.

‘I reckon it must be the fancy man, whoever he is. Sally Gilbert puts on a load of make-up . . .’

‘She always wore a lot of make-up,’ said Wesley, stating the simple fact.

But Gerry Heffernan wasn’t to be put off. ‘She tarts herself up and goes to meet someone . . . a man . . . in one of the poshest
places around. What if this Mike asked her to meet him, to renew their relationship, or whatever they call it? She might not
let on to her mate Lisa until she’d decided it was all back on again.’

‘And she’s early for their date. Lilly said she thought she was just killing time.’

‘Or he keeps her waiting. What is it they say? Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. I can’t see Trevor keeping her waiting, can
you? And I can’t see her dolling herself up for him either. My money’s on the fancy man. What do you think?’

Wesley didn’t answer. He was concentrating on parking the car in the police station carpark.

‘So who’s Mike?’ Wesley asked suddenly as he pushed open the station’s swing-doors. ‘Mike Cumberland, the manager? There’s
always a chance you’re not right about his sexual inclinations, you know.’

Heffernan gave a dismissive grunt. ‘Mike’s a common name,’ he mumbled. ‘Even your little lad’s called Michael.’

‘Yes, but how many Mikes did Sally Gilbert know?’

There was no answer. Wesley had made a good point and Heffernan knew it. Perhaps it would be worth having another word with
the manager of the Tradfield Manor Hotel.

They found the CID office half empty. Most of the officers were out and about asking questions, and the few who were still
there, manning the phones and sifting through paperwork for information, hardly looked up when their two senior officers appeared
in the doorway. Only Steve Carstairs glanced up guiltily from his computer.

‘Steve. A word.’ Heffernan had noticed the furtive look on Steve’s face.

Steve obeyed the boss’s beckoning finger. His face was sulky as he slunk into Heffernan’s office.

Heffernan came straight to the point. ‘Have you heard from Harry Marchbank?’

Steve hesitated. ‘Er, he’s in hospital. But he thinks he’ll be out in a couple of days.’

Heffernan glanced at Wesley, who was sitting in the only available chair apart from the chief inspector’s own.

‘What’s the matter with him? Nothing trivial, I hope.’

‘Suspected heart attack.’

Heffernan was silent for a moment. Wesley watched his face and saw nothing: no gloating, no sympathy.

‘How is he?’ Wesley asked. He thought he should say something.

‘He says he’s fine. Says they’re fussing over nothing.’

Heffernan stood up. ‘And what made you keep this little gem of information to yourself?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Didn’t get the chance to tell you, we’ve been that busy.’

‘Been to see him, have you? Been visiting the sick?’

Steve blushed. ‘I popped in last night, sir.’

‘And what did Marchbank have to say for himself when you “popped in”? Did he ask you to do his legwork for him?’

Steve looked at the boss. By some form of telepathy, he seemed to have guessed the truth. But Steve’s only instinct was to
cover up for Harry . . . as he always had in the past. ‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘You sure?’ Heffernan looked him in the eye.

‘Yes, sir. Got enough on my plate with this murder and the Nestec robbery, haven’t I?’

‘Never a truer word spoken. I want you to telephone every computer retailer in the area; see if anyone’s tried to flog them
Nestec’s stuff. You’ve got all the serial numbers, haven’t you?’

Steve nodded sulkily.

‘Then after that you can get over to Littlebury where Sally Gilbert’s car was found – knock on any doors that haven’t already
been knocked on. Someone must have seen her – she wasn’t the invisible woman. Take Trish with you when she gets back. You
can do your courting-couple act. I’m sure you’re good at it. Off you go.’

Steve scuttled back to his desk, picking up a couple of heavy telephone directories from the shelves on the way.

‘You were a bit hard on him, Gerry.’

‘Nonsense. If I wasn’t he’d be disappearing off doing Harry Marchbank’s legwork every time my back was turned. You didn’t
know Marchbank when he was here. He had Steve at his beck and call. Where do you think Steve acquired his more endearing qualities?
Harry Marchbank, that’s where. Can’t say I’m sorry he’s in hospital and out of our hair. Steve’s been improving a bit lately.
Pity if Harry Marchbank went and spoiled all that, eh.’

When Wesley had first arrived in Tradmouth, Steve Carstairs had given him a hard time. Wesley had come across racists many
times in his life and Steve, unfortunately, had appeared to be one of them. But recently his attitude seemed to have softened.
As Heffernan had said, it would be a pity if Harry Marchbank went and turned the clock back.

The chief inspector stood up. ‘I think we should take a
stroll to the hospital and have a little chat with Harry – set him right on a few things. Then we’ll drop in on your dear
mother-in-law.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought you were interested in that skeleton at Chadleigh Hall. Now that your mate Neil’s gone and added to our workload,
I suppose we’d better follow it up. I want to see if she has any interesting reminiscences about her schooldays. You know
the sort of thing – jolly hockey sticks, feasts in the dorm, tying up the new girl and leaving her to die in a sealed room
. . .’

Wesley smiled. ‘I’m not sure that Della played hockey.’

‘More a fag-behind-the-bike-sheds type, I should think. Come on.’

The walk to Tradmouth Hospital took five minutes. The two men strolled together in amicable silence through narrow streets
filled with shoppers and early tourists; people going about their business unconcerned by death. Wesley almost envied them.

They found Harry Marchbank sitting up in bed, minus his oxygen mask. If Heffernan hadn’t been told otherwise, he would have
thought he was malingering. The visitors approached under the patient’s hostile gaze.

It was Heffernan who spoke first. ‘Hello, Harry. Steve tells me you’ve not been well. I thought I’d come and find out for
myself. I thought you might have been telling him tales.’ He picked up the chart clipped to the end of the bed and examined
it closely, although Wesley doubted that he could understand the thing.

‘Why are you here?’ Harry said, glancing at Wesley.

‘Call it visiting the sick and needy. We’re off to see an old lady in the next ward soon. We like to do our bit.’ The chief
inspector beamed down at Marchbank like a malevolent cherub.

Wesley, glad that Della couldn’t hear herself being described as an old lady, wondered where this conversation was leading.

‘So what’s wrong with you?’

‘They think I had a heart attack but they can’t find anything wrong with me now. I told them it was indigestion, but would
they listen? Bloody doctors . . .’

Heffernan looked at Wesley. ‘Don’t say that in front of our inspector here. Most of his family are doctors. Isn’t that right,
Wesley? Raised the whole tone of the office has our Inspector Peterson. We’re even getting Steve Carstairs house-trained at
last.’

Heffernan paused, glaring at the patient in the bed. ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Marchbank. I never liked you and I
was glad to get shut of you. And the last thing I want is you coming back and taking my officers’ minds off their work. I
don’t want you asking Steve to do your legwork for you while you’re stuck in here. Right? He’s got enough on his plate as
it is. And I don’t want you stirring things just as they were beginning to settle down either. Understand?’

Marchbank smirked. ‘Crystal clear . . . sir.’

‘So have you tracked down your man yet?’

Marchbank shifted against his pillows, giving Wesley a hostile glance. ‘You could say that. I saw him in Tradmouth on the
waterfront. He ran for it and I was after him when all this happened. The bastard’s somewhere around here and when I get out
of here I’ll get him.’