The Skeleton Room (30 page)

At nine o’clock he set out for his first appointment.

According to the files Trish had found, Marcus Charles Gibbon had died on the twentieth of July the previous year, aged thirty-four,
leaving a widow and three-year-old daughter.

He had left the house one day without saying where he was going and three hours later he had been found dead at Coreton Cove
in the grounds of a National Trust property near Queenswear over the river, his broken body lying sprawled on some rocks at
the foot of a path down to the cove. He had never shown any interest in Coreton House or its grounds and his presence there
was inexplicable. He had been seen outside the nearby café half an hour earlier but there were no witnesses to what had happened
on the path, which was known to be dangerous, a notice at the top instructing visitors to stay away from the edge. A verdict
of accidental death had been recorded and the path down to the cove was now closed to the public, awaiting repairs and safety
improvements. Marcus Gibbon’s death had made the headlines of the local paper and had merited a few passing words in the national
dailies. It seemed that dying was the most remarkable thing Marcus Gibbon had done in the course of his short life.

Wesley took Rachel with him to visit Marcus’s widow, Linda, who lived in a small semi-detached house on the outskirts of Neston.
When he had phoned, Linda had said she would be at home: it was her day off. She had sounded almost eager for a visit from
the police – for a visit
from anyone, for that matter.

The door was opened a few seconds after Rachel rang the door bell. Linda had clearly dressed up for the occasion and put on
a layer of make-up. She showed them into the small, conventionally furnished living room. The place was unnaturally neat,
and Wesley had the impression that she’d tidied it in preparation for their visit. She made them tea – in her best wedding-present
china – and sat down to face them; the anxious hostess trying to anticipate her guests’ every need. Wesley had the feeling
that visitors were rare and she wanted to make the most of the company.

‘Is that your daughter?’ Rachel pointed to a photograph on the mantelpiece – a plain little girl in a fussy pink frock, smiling
awkwardly at the unseen camera.

‘Yes, that’s our Jade. She’s at my mum’s. I thought . . .’

Wesley smiled. ‘We’re very sorry to bother you, Mrs Gibbon, but, as I said on the phone, we’d like to ask you a few
questions about your husband’s death.’

Linda Gibbon nodded eagerly. She relished the opportunity to talk about Marcus: so many people she knew avoided mentioning
him at all.

‘What did Marcus do for a living?’ Wesley began.

‘He worked as a salesman at a car showroom – Beckers, on the road into Neston – but he got made redundant a few months before
he died. He was looking for work and he thought he had something lined up in Newton Abbot. When he went out without saying
where he was going I thought it might be something to do with a job.’

‘You didn’t know he’d gone to Coreton House?’

Linda shook her head vehemently. ‘I told the police at the time that I’d no idea what he was doing there. I mean, he wasn’t
interested in old houses and gardens and I don’t think he’d ever been there before. I suppose he might have decided to go
there on the spur of the moment. I don’t know. It’s all a bit of a mystery.’

Linda’s initial eagerness for company had yielded to quiet sadness as the young widow remembered the last time
she had seen her husband alive. He had seemed excited when he’d left the house that day, as though he was expecting something
good to happen but didn’t like to mention it to Linda in case his plans didn’t come off. He had given her a cheerful kiss
as he left – and he had never come back.

‘Did you ask him where he was going?’ Wesley was thinking of Sally Gilbert; how she had seemed excited as she said goodbye
to Lisa Marriott before setting off for an unknown destination.

‘He said he had a meeting and he’d tell me all about it when he got back. But he did say it was something that might solve
all our worries.’

‘What worries?’ Wesley asked quickly.

Linda looked at him pityingly. ‘What kind of worries do people usually have? Money, of course. I gave up work when Jade was
born but we were all right. Then when Marcus was made redundant we found we couldn’t manage. We had to start selling things
and we even thought we’d have to lose the house. Of course, that was paid off when he died so . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘So what did you think he meant?’

‘At first I thought it might be about a job: but I’m sure he would have told me if it was. Then I wondered if it was some
get-rich-quick scheme, but I hoped it wasn’t. All the get-rich-quick schemes I’ve ever heard of have ended up costing people
money rather than making it.’ Linda Gibbon was clearly a realist.

She hesitated, as though she had something on her mind. ‘He got a letter a couple of days before he died – sort of important
looking, marked strictly private and confidential – and I did wonder at the time whether it had anything to do with . . .’

Wesley sat forward, listening intently. ‘You didn’t mention it to the police?’

‘Well, I didn’t know if it was important.’

‘So why mention it now?’

Linda thought for a few moments. ‘I’ve thought about it
a lot since . . . gone over and over it. I asked Marcus about it and he just said he couldn’t tell me about it yet, which
was odd because we never usually had secrets from each other, but . . . But he seemed sort of . . . pleased about it, excited.
Perhaps I should have told the police about it at the time but I was in shock and . . .’

‘Do you think the letter could have been connected with where he went on the day he died?’

‘It might have been, yes. He’d seemed a bit on edge since it arrived – as if he was sort of . . . expecting something but
didn’t like to tell me or count his chickens before they hatched.’

‘Did you ever find the letter?’

Linda shook her head. ‘No. I looked for it, just out of curiosity really. But I never found it and it wasn’t . . .’ She hesitated,
close to tears. ‘It wasn’t in his pockets or in the car when they found him.’

Wesley and Rachel looked at each other. ‘What did this letter look like?’ Wesley asked.

‘I never saw the letter itself but the envelope looked expensive: that thick cream paper with the address typed. There was
a sort of blue line across the black. It looked as if it was from a firm – you know . . .’

‘Official?’ Rachel suggested.

‘Not from the tax man or anything like that but it looked as if it was from a solicitor or something. Important . . . with
“strictly private and confidential” typed on it.’

Wesley had the envelope Lisa Marriott had given him. He produced it, swathed in protective plastic, and handed it to Linda.
He saw a spark of recognition in her eyes.

‘Was the envelope like this one?’

‘Yes,’ said Linda, turning it over. ‘It was exactly the same.’

After their visit to Linda Gibbon, he and Rachel called on the families of the three other victims on his list. All had died
in late July by falling off cliffs, each in different years.
Two had been thought to be accidents, and the case of the third, Marion Bowler, had clearly been a murder, as yet unsolved.

Their next call was to the partner of the late Gilda Flemming, an artist who had taken up residence in the village of Stoke
Beeching a year before her death. She had given up a career as a teacher and had sold all her assets to buy a small cottage
in the village. As her partner was also an artist, and not a particularly successful one, money had been tight. The cottage
was shabby and run down so things didn’t seem to have improved since Gilda’s death.

Gilda had gone for a walk one day and had never come back. Her body had been found at the foot of a cliff at Stoke Beeching.
Verdict: accidental death. She had died uninsured and, the partner had told Wesley mournfully, money was now even tighter.
He couldn’t remember whether she had received a letter before she died: he tended not to notice that sort of thing. But, now
he thought about it, she had seemed quite elated when she had gone out on the day of her death, as though she had some exciting
secret. And she hadn’t told him where she was going, which was unusual.

The next victim on their list was a John Millwright, a middle-aged man who lived on the outskirts of Morbay with his wife.
He had fallen from cliffs near Bloxham on the twenty-second of July two years previously, and his wife had had no idea what
he had been doing on an isolated cliff top when he was supposed to have been doing the weekly shop at the supermarket. There
had been a suspicion at first that, as John Millwright was experiencing serious financial difficulties, he had taken his own
life. But his widow, the last to see him alive, had assured the coroner of his cheerful state of mind when he had set out
on his final journey, so it was concluded that his death had been a tragic accident.

When Rachel and Wesley called on Millwright’s widow, Paula, there was nobody at home in the freshly painted
white bungalow that stood in a suburban avenue on the edge of the sprawling seaside resort.

They were about to walk back down the crazy-paved front path towards the car when an elderly lady appeared round the side
of the bungalow next door and eyed Wesley with undisguised suspicion.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked warily, keeping her distance.

Wesley produced his warrant card. ‘We’re looking for a Mrs Millwright. Does she still live here?’

The woman hesitated, not taking her eyes off Wesley. ‘Yes. What do you want her for?’

It was Rachel who spoke. ‘We just want a word with her. Nothing to worry about. Do you know when she’ll be back?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

Wesley could tell the woman was lying. All the crime prevention publicity about bogus officials and suspicious callers had
been etched into the psyche of Mrs Millwright’s neighbour.

When he handed the woman his card, she took it and held it by the corner as though she suspected it was impregnated with some
deadly poison. ‘When you see Mrs Millwright again will you ask her to ring me or Sergeant Tracey as soon as possible. Tell
her it’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a few questions we’d like to ask her.’ He gave the woman what he considered to
be a reassuring smile and left her studying his card.

‘At least the neighbourhood watch around here seems efficient,’ Rachel commented with a smile. ‘I wouldn’t like to be the
burglar who tries to get past that one.’

The last visit was the one Wesley was dreading. Twenty-three-year-old Marion Bowler had left her parents’ home on the afternoon
of the twenty-fifth of July four years ago and had never returned. Her body had been discovered at the foot of the cliffs
at Little Tradmouth, and there were clear signs of a struggle on the cliff top. According to everyone who knew her, Marion
had been a nice girl. She worked in a local building society and was saving up for a round-the-
world trip with her boyfriend. Inspector Stan Jenkins, now retired, had been in charge of the case, and Marion’s boyfriend
had been the chief suspect because they had quarrelled shortly before her death. But there was little solid evidence against
him, certainly nothing that would stand up in court. Marion’s killer had left no clues and Stan Jenkins had never managed
to bring him to justice. Just another unsolved crime.

Wesley was glad that Rachel was with him. She always had the right words to say to grieving relatives – and Marion’s parents
were still grieving, even after four years. As they sat sipping tea in the Bowlers’ drab front room in their small, neat bungalow,
Wesley had an uneasy feeling that he was intruding. He would rather have left the couple, prematurely aged with grief, alone,
but if his suspicions were correct, they might have vital information.

But they were unable to reveal anything they hadn’t told the police a thousand times already. Marion had seemed excited before
she went out that fateful day, elated even, but they knew of no official-looking letter. However, Marion had always been down
first in the mornings and had collected the post from the mat, so if there had been a letter for her, she would have got to
it first.

Wesley left the Bowlers’ house with an increasing certainty that there was something in his theory: now all he needed was
proof.

‘What do you think?’ Rachel asked as Wesley turned the car towards Tradmouth.

‘I think there’s a link but I can’t for the life of me think what it could be. The victims don’t seem to have anything in
common. They’re different ages, different occupations.’

‘So how many have there been?’

‘If our theory’s right, Sally Gilbert would have been the fifth. But there might be some before Gilda Flemming that we don’t
know about yet.’

‘There must be something connecting the victims. Something we’re missing.’

Wesley glanced at her. ‘Of course, they may have nothing in common at all. The deaths might be exactly what they seem: either
accidents or unconnected murders.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

Wesley smiled. ‘As the boss would say, I’ve got a feeling in my water. I keep thinking about the victims being excited and
being secretive about where they were going – and those letters Sally and Marcus Gibbon received. There’s something odd going
on and it’s just a matter of finding out what it is.’

Rachel said nothing for the rest of the journey. Wesley parked the car at the police station and she climbed from the passenger
seat, showing rather too much leg. Wesley averted his eyes.

He wanted to talk to Gerry Heffernan. He climbed the stairs to the CID office and made straight for the chief inspector’s
lair. Heffernan was examining his hair in a small mirror which he shoved back in the desk drawer hastily as soon as Wesley
crossed the threshold. Wesley said nothing as he sat himself down, but he noticed that Heffernan looked embarrassed: vanity
had never been one of his weaknesses in the past.