The Skeleton Room (15 page)

‘I presume you’re the policemen. Identity please,’ she said, in the same voice that must have forbidden running in the corridor
all those years ago.

Wesley and Heffernan meekly handed their warrant cards over for examination. Miss Snowman stared at the cards and then at
the men. Once satisfied, she handed them back and stood aside to let them into the cottage.

‘You’ll have tea.’ It was an order rather than a question.

When they were settled in a pair of chintz armchairs, sipping Earl Grey tea under the former headmistress’s stern gaze, Wesley
decided to break the ice.

‘My wife’s mother is an old girl of Chadleigh Hall.’

‘Really?’ She looked at him with something approaching disapproval. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Della Stannard . . . her maiden name was Kelly.’

Miss Snowman glowered. Her eyebrows were still black, unlike her hair, which now matched her name. She was good at glowering.
‘Della Kelly.’ She thought for a moment. ‘A naughty girl if I remember right. Always in trouble.’

She looked away. Wesley had expected her to ask what Della was doing now – whether she had made the transition from naughty
girl to useful member of society. It seemed to be a natural thing for a former teacher to ask. But it appeared she had no
interest in the fate of her old girls. The subject was closed. Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to mention Della after all.

Heffernan gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was time to get down to business.

Wesley began. ‘Chadleigh Hall’s being converted into a hotel, Miss Snowman. When one of the walls was knocked down a room
was discovered – a room that had been sealed up for years.’ He paused, watching her face, but her
expression gave nothing away. ‘It was a wall in what used to be your study, Miss Snowman.’ Again no reaction. He delivered
the punch line. ‘The body of a teenage girl was found in the sealed room and we suspect she was put in there some time in
the 1960s.’

At last Wesley detected a worried look in the old woman’s eyes. ‘That’s impossible, Inspector. Absolutely impossible. Don’t
you think I would have noticed dead bodies being carried around my school? It’s an outrageous suggestion.’

‘So you know nothing about this body?’

‘Of course not. Who could she have been? I mean, has she been identified?’

‘Not yet. We wanted to ask if any of your pupils went missing around that time. Della . . . er, my mother-in-law mentioned
that one of the older girls disappeared while she was there. What can you tell me about it?’

There was no mistake. Miss Snowman’s face had clouded. She knew something. ‘There was a girl. She went off one day after a
tennis match . . . ran away.’

‘You contacted her parents, of course.’

‘Naturally.’ She glanced at Wesley, worried. ‘But she didn’t return home. The police were called, of course, but then her
parents received a letter from her saying she was safe and well. She’d gone to London with some unsuitable young man. The
search was called off. I believe her parents tried to find her but . . .’

‘But what?’ Heffernan spoke for the first time.

‘I don’t think they had any success. Presumably she’d thought that it was enough just to let them know she was safe. She’d
also said in the letter that she didn’t want to see them again. Of course, I never heard anything more about it. She’d made
her choice and that was that.’

‘Tell us about the girl.’

‘Her name was Alexandra Stanes. A quiet girl . . . but sometimes they’re the worst. She was average height, I suppose, light
brown hair, quite pretty. Not too bright.
Easily led.’ She paused as though she was about to say something more but had thought better of it. ‘That’s about all I can
tell you. She wasn’t a very memorable girl. In fact the most memorable thing she ever did at Chadleigh Hall was to disappear
into thin air.’

‘Were her friends interviewed at the time?’

Wesley was sure he wasn’t mistaken: Miss Snowman looked uneasy.

‘I believe so. Yes.’

‘And did any of them throw any light on her disappearance?’

Miss Snowman shook her head, her lips pursed.

Wesley carried on. ‘I believe you had builders in around the time she left.’

Miss Snowman looked up at Wesley sharply. ‘Who told you that? Della Kelly, I suppose.’

Wesley nodded.

‘Yes, I had some alterations done to my study and my secretary’s room. I wanted a wall knocked through to the passage but
the builders began the work then said it couldn’t be done. Supporting wall or something. They said the whole place would collapse
around my ears if I insisted. So they concentrated on improvements to the kitchens and did some work in the attics.’

‘We’ll need the names of the builders. Do you remember?’

She looked at Wesley and sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Young man, I’m not senile, you know. Of course I remember the builder. It
was Mr Kilburn. His son runs the business now. In fact he’s done rather well for himself. He’s branched out and he owns several
hotels: Kilburn Leisure. Have you heard of them?’

‘Oh yes. We’ve heard of them,’ said Gerry Heffernan, catching Wesley’s eye.

Sally Gilbert had worked for Kilburn Leisure. And Sally Gilbert was dead.

*

The call came through to the CID office at 3.30. Six of Nestec’s stolen computers had turned up at a second-hand computer
shop in Morbay.

Steve Carstairs sat beside Rachel as she drove through Morbay’s crowded streets. It was coming up to holiday time: the season
of crowded pavements, traffic jams and petty crime on the promenade. As they drove slowly past shops crammed with bright plastic
buckets and spades, inflatable dinghies and Lilos suspended from shopfronts shifted gently in the breeze.

Rachel’s foot hit the brake as a couple in baseball caps dragging a pair of young children with dirty faces and dripping ice
creams stepped in front of the car. Steve swore but Rachel kept her eyes ahead, knowing that if her companion had been driving
he might have just added to Devon’s accident statistics.

Morbay Computer Services occupied a small shop in a run-down side street well away from the seafront. The place hardly reeked
of high technology, resembling more the old-fashioned electrical shops that Rachel remembered vaguely from her childhood.

A jangling bell announced their arrival as they stepped into the small shop. Rows of grey computer screens, blank as sightless
eyes, were piled up on shelves.

Steve gave Rachel a nudge as a small, balding man appeared from the back of the shop. If the weather hadn’t been so warm he
would have been wearing an anorak.

‘You called us about the computers from Nestec?’ Rachel gave him her most charming smile. The man responded with a blush.

‘They’re in the back,’ he said, before leading the way to what seemed like a cave formed out of cardboard boxes. He pointed
to a pile of boxes in the corner. ‘There. If I’d known they were nicked I’d never have bought them, but I was told they were
second hand, that a firm had folded after getting some new equipment. They just wanted to get what they could for it.’

‘Is that usual?’

The man looked embarrassed. ‘It happens sometimes.’

‘So when did you find out they’d been nicked?’ Steve asked, as though he suspected the man of robbing Nestec’s lorry personally.

‘When a copper came round with a list of stolen items to look out for. I noticed the batch numbers and . . .’ He looked at
Steve. ‘I’m the victim here, you know. It’s me who’s losing money. Two grand I paid for those computers. Thought it was a
bargain. Some bargain.’

‘Yes, sir. We know. It’s very public spirited of you to call us.’ Rachel smiled again, making up for her colleague’s shortcomings.
‘Now can you describe the person who sold you the equipment?’

The man frowned. ‘Just a lad, he was. He said he was in charge of IT in a firm that had gone bust so I assumed he was in his
twenties, but he looked younger.’

‘Tall or short?’

‘Average.’

‘Hair?’

‘Brown. Shortish.’

‘Accent?’

‘Didn’t really have one.’

‘Anything else you can tell us about him? Anything he said? Anything at all?’

‘No. He wasn’t here for long. He just said he worked for a small firm that had gone bust and he was trying to get the best
price for some nearly new computer equipment. He had a van outside and he brought in the boxes. He went away for a couple
of hours while I checked the equipment then he came back and I paid up. Two grand for six new computers. I thought I had a
good deal.’

‘Did he sign anything? Give you any sort of paperwork?’

‘Hang on a minute.’

The man scuttled off into another room and returned a few minutes later with a sheet of paper. ‘Here we are. He gave me this
receipt for the money. “Received the
sum of two thousand pounds for six second-hand Nestec computers.”’

‘Is there a name?’ Rachel asked, ever patient.

‘Yes. It’s signed . . . it looks like D. Duck.’

Rachel and Steve looked at each other.

‘Is that D for Donald?’ Steve muttered.

‘And is there a name for the company?’ Rachel enquired.

‘Yes. Celestina Products. Never heard of them. Have you?’

‘Any news on the Sally Gilbert case?’ Gerry Heffernan asked loudly when he returned to the CID office.

Trish Walton spoke first. ‘Nothing new, sir. We’re interviewing all the people on Monks Island who were definitely there on
the day Sally Gilbert died. I’ve made a list.’ She handed the boss a sheet of paper. ‘Steve and Rachel are following up a
report that some of Nestec’s stolen computers have turned up in Morbay.’

Wesley smiled at Trish encouragingly. She’d only joined CID recently after a period of secondment and she was shaping up well.

‘Let’s hope Steve is behaving himself,’ Heffernan muttered as he made for his office, with Wesley following.

‘Trish is a sensible girl.’

‘I didn’t mean that, Wes. I meant with Harry Marchbank leading him astray.’ He paused for a moment, frowning. ‘Do you reckon
we should go and have a word with this builder Kilburn?’

‘If he’s still alive.’

‘Shouldn’t be hard to find out. Dominic Kilburn of Kilburn Leisure’s his son: we’ll pay a call to his offices.’

‘I don’t think we made a very good impression when we saw him at the hotel.’

‘We don’t have to make a good impression, Wes.’

‘No, but I don’t think there’s any point in getting on the wrong side of the Dominic Kilburns of this world. They can make
things awkward for us.’

Heffernan grunted. Wesley was probably right. But he hated to admit it. ‘I reckon Kilburn senior must be prime suspect for
the Chadleigh Hall killing.’

‘Or one of his workmen.’

‘The voice of reason speaks again.’ He grinned at Wesley. ‘Let’s pay Kilburn Junior a call, shall we. His offices are in Neston
– I looked up the address. He’ll be able to tell us where to find his dad.’

Wesley looked longingly at the cup of steaming tea on one of the detective constable’s desks. But he comforted himself with
the thought that, with any luck, they’d be offered refreshments at the well-appointed offices of Kilburn Leisure Ltd.

They drove out to Neston again and found Kilburn Leisure’s offices housed in a grand Georgian villa on the outskirts of town.
A brass plate, polished to mirror brightness, confirmed that they had come to the right place. The villa’s paintwork was gleaming
white and the door – the original – was painted a rich glossy red. A pair of bay trees with abundant, dust-free leaves stood
either side of the entrance. Not a thing out of place. Dominic Kilburn’s father may have been a jobbing builder but this place
bore no resemblance to a builder’s yard.

A young receptionist, cool and efficient beyond her years, greeted them and asked them to wait. The only reading matter provided
for their entertainment was a collection of Kilburn Leisure’s brochures, including one describing the as yet unformed delights
of Chadleigh Hall. Luxury bedrooms with en suite Jacuzzis; swimming pool; health club; conference facilities; nine-hole golf
course. No mention of skeletons.

It was ten minutes before Dominic Kilburn put in an appearance. Wesley formed the impression that their wait had been deliberately
engineered to emphasise the fact that he was a busy man who was not at the beck and call of anybody, least of all the local
constabulary.

He shook hands, but when they announced that they
wanted to talk to him about Chadleigh Hall his impatience was obvious. ‘I suppose you’ve come about that skeleton. Look,
there’s nothing I can tell you about it. I only bought the place a year ago and the building work didn’t start till May. I
wanted to have the place opened by September but . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Kilburn,’ said Wesley. ‘We believe it’s possible that the skeleton was put into that room in the 1960s so we’re
obliged to investigate. I’m sure you’ll understand.’

Kilburn didn’t reply.

Wesley continued. ‘We’ve been talking to the former headmistress of the girls’ school that used to occupy the hall. She says
your father’s building firm did some renovation work in the mid-1960s.’

Kilburn looked wary. ‘So?’

‘We’d like a word with your father. If you give us his address we can leave you to it.’ Wesley smiled expectantly, as though
he was anticipating instant cooperation. The tactic sometimes worked.

Kilburn hesitated. ‘He’s an old man. He’s eighty-four. I don’t want him bothered.’

Wesley did his best to look sympathetic. ‘I can assure you, sir, that all we want is an informal chat. His address?’

Another hesitation. Gerry Heffernan, watching from the wings, had a feeling that Kilburn’s reluctance had little to do with
filial concern.

‘He’s in a retirement home,’ Kilburn said after a long silence. ‘Prawlton Towers in Tradmouth. On the road to the castle.
Look, I don’t want him upset.’

Wesley looked straight at him. ‘You have my word that we’ll do nothing to upset him.’

He caught Heffernan’s eye. It was time to move. There was no point in staying any longer. They had what they wanted.