The Skeleton Room (33 page)

‘So what was in the letter?’ Rachel steered the woman
back to the matter in hand.

‘Well, I found it and I started to read it but I didn’t get very far. I heard John outside the bedroom door so I put it back
in the envelope and shoved it back in the drawer. He was unemployed and at home all day so I didn’t get another chance until
he went out to the supermarket to do the shopping . . . at least, that’s where he told me he was going. When he’d gone I went
and looked for it again but it wasn’t there. He must have taken it with him.’

‘Or thrown it away?’ Rachel suggested.

‘No. I looked through all the bins for it. It wasn’t there.’

Rachel couldn’t help smiling. Mrs Millwright had been thorough
in her nosiness. Rachel would have done the same herself in the circumstances.

‘Was the letter found on his body?’

Paula Millwright shook her head. The hair was so stiffly lacquered it hardly moved. ‘I was in such a state that for one reason
or another I didn’t mention it to the police until after the inquest. Of course, they weren’t interested. They said the case
was closed. I expect they thought I was just a grieving widow trying to grasp at anything that would prove John hadn’t killed
himself.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘Perhaps they were right. It’s always been at the back of my mind that the coroner
was wrong. When I think about the debts he had and . . .’

‘What was in the first few lines of the letter?’

She frowned, trying to remember. ‘It was something about him being a beneficiary, I think it was. Then it said something about
being confidential and it mentioned money . . . a considerable sum. There was a lot more but that was all I managed to see,’
she said, disappointed. ‘When I told the police about it they just said it probably wasn’t important.’

Wesley and Rachel looked at each other. Was this how the victims were lured to their deaths? By a promise of wealth? By greed
– or just a desperate need for money when times were hard? Wesley imagined that the letter
instructed the victim to keep its contents secret and to bring it with them to a meeting place so that the evidence could
be destroyed. Clever. But why?

‘Was there any sort of company name on the letter?’

‘Oh yes. It was a Tradmouth address. I tried to look them up in the phone book and the Yellow Pages later on but they didn’t
seem to be in. I thought about getting in touch with them after John died to find out what it was all about.’

‘Can you remember the address?’

‘I wrote it down.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I thought it might be one of those confidence tricks and I was going to check
it out if John showed signs of getting involved in anything.’ She stood up and walked over to a light-wood sideboard, unfussy
and modern – probably acquired during her years of relatively affluent widowhood.

She opened a drawer and took out a small black book. ‘Here it is. Iddacombe Finance. Seventy Ship Street, Tradmouth.

Wesley wrote the address carefully in his notebook.

Neil Watson had read the book Robin Carrington had lent him with great interest. At last he knew exactly what had happened
to the
Celestina
, the object of all their attention for the past weeks. And there was more to discover – matters the Reverend Octavius Mount
had glossed over, for reasons best known to himself.

Neil was determined to piece together the whole story. That was why he was sitting in the reference library in Exeter with
a book open in front of him, its yellowing pages stiff with age. He read the words again, more slowly this time, taking them
in, accustoming his eyes to the old-fashioned print; the S’s that took the form of F’s and the archaic language.

But the story was clear enough. Jud Kilburn had been a notorious wrecker – a ruthless murderer who hadn’t hesitated to end
of the lives of countless men, women and even
children for his own gain. He had eventually been brought to justice. Neil was reading a contemporary account of his trial.

But he was unprepared for Kilburn’s outburst from the dock, his every word carefully reported. Words that would have shocked
judge and jury alike.

When he had finished reading, Neil sat back and smiled to himself. It all fitted. He knew the truth at last.

There was no 70 Ship Street. The numbers on that narrow but handsome Georgian thoroughfare only reached the low forties. Most
of Ship Street contained buildings that had once been the elegant town houses of wealthy shipowners, now converted into offices
of the discreetly professional kind: solicitors, architects, accountants, dentists – all with their names engraved on polished
brass plates, reliable and respectable. Whoever had chosen it as the address of Iddacombe Finance had done their homework.

Wesley was back in the office, sitting at his desk with a cup of tea in his hand, when Steve Carstairs sauntered in. He hesitated,
as if making a decision, then came over, avoiding Wesley’s eyes.

‘Er, you had a call earlier. Neil Watson. Said could you get in touch. Claims he’s found out something important.’

Steve turned to go. He never spent any longer talking to Wesley than was absolutely necessary. And he had been worse, more
surly and resentful, since Harry Marchbank had shown his ugly face in the office again. Wesley thanked him with scrupulous
politeness: hopefully Steve would settle down again now Harry was off the scene and back in London giving the Met a bad name.

Wesley looked at the telephone, tempted to ring Neil right away. But there were more pressing matters. He found Gerry Heffernan
in his office, looking through a file marked ‘Budget’ with an expression of blank boredom on his face.

‘How do they expect us to catch villains when we’ve got
to deal with crap like this?’ He flung the file to the floor and the contents spilled out. ‘Pardon my French, Wes, but if
I’d wanted to be a flaming accountant I wouldn’t have joined the force. What’s new?’

Wesley told him. He gave him chapter and verse on Paula Millwright and her late husband’s letter.

‘So he gets a letter from a company that doesn’t exist then the letter disappears when he conveniently falls off a cliff.
Why him? Who’d want him dead?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ Wesley thought for a moment. ‘But I’d like another word with Trevor Gilbert. There’s something
nagging at the back of my mind and . . .’ He hesitated.

‘Anything you’re ready to share with Uncle Gerry?’

Wesley grinned and shook his head.

‘I said I’d pick Sam up from Carole’s again after work.’

‘You mean I’ll pick him up. Have you never considered learning to drive, Gerry?’

‘Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,’ Heffernan growled.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘What about?’ Heffernan bent down wearily and began to pick the budget papers up off the floor.

‘Iddacombe Finance. Brenda Dilkes cleaned for the Iddacombes in that lighthouse. And the owners of Chadleigh Hall were called
Iddacombe. It’s not a common name.’

‘All roads lead to Chadleigh Hall, eh? Think there’s some connection with your skeleton?’

‘How could there be? But it does indicate some link with the present-day Iddacombes. Or somebody who knows the history of
the hall.’

‘Robin Carrington and his family trees. He knows all about the Iddacombes. And he comes down here every July.’

Wesley looked at the boss expectantly. This was surely more than a wild guess. The coincidences were just too great.

‘Carrington’s victim – or rather his wife’s – was murdered in an insurance scam. Could Carrington have been insuring the lives
of all these unconnected people and then bumping them off one by one?’

Wesley shook his head. ‘Sorry, Gerry, it’s a good idea but under English law you’re not allowed to insure the lives of complete
strangers for no good reason. They stopped that in the eighteenth century. The Gambling Act of 1774.’

Heffernan looked at him, astonished. Wesley smiled. ‘I had that idea myself when I’d seen Mrs Millwright so I called up an
insurance company and that’s what they told me. It’s something called “insurable interest”.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a good idea
while it lasted.’

‘So if it was Carrington, why did he do it?’

‘If it is him, he’s not telling. He admits to having known Brenda Dilkes – mainly in the biblical sense – but he denies all
knowledge of Sally Gilbert and the other possible victims. And he denies giving Brenda the necklace.’

‘And the Met want him back. They’re sending someone to pick him up later today. Apparently the French police are still looking
for Harriet.’

‘Harry Marchbank’s daughter?’

‘So he says. I’ve never felt sorry for Marchbank before but . . .’

‘They say adversity makes you a better person.’ Wesley mumbled the platitude hopefully, although he had his doubts in Harry
Marchbank’s case.

Gerry Heffernan scratched his head and said nothing.

‘I’m going to have another word with Trevor Gilbert. I want to see if there’s anything we’ve missed – any common denominator.
The only thing I’ve come up with so far is that most of the victims seemed to be going through hard times financially.’

Heffernan pushed his paperwork to one side. ‘Hang on, Wes, I’ll come with you.’

Wesley had wanted to see Trevor Gilbert alone – he sensed the man might be more open in a one-to-one
situation. But Gerry Heffernan looked so keen to get out of the office he knew there was no way he could put him off.

As he drove out to Trevor Gilbert’s house on the edge of Tradmouth, Wesley’s mind was on the common denominator. But he
couldn’t for the life of him think of one.

They found Trevor Gilbert at home. He hadn’t felt like going into work that day. The atmosphere at Nestec wasn’t good, he
told them as he shuffled out to make them a cup of tea. Now that Sebastian Wilde was facing charges and the workforce knew
the reality of the company’s financial situation, the formerly happy ship had turned into a storm-tossed hulk. Things looked
bad. Redundancies were expected.

But financial disaster was nothing new to Trevor, he explained to the two officers sadly. The one thing Sally had excelled
at was spending money, he said, and her credit and store cards had had more exercise than a top Olympic athlete. But at least
the mortgage had been paid off on her death, so whatever happened Trevor would keep a roof over his head.

At that point there was a noise upstairs. Something falling over, perhaps. Or a footstep on a bedroom floor. Trevor made no
comment and Wesley didn’t ask.

Wesley didn’t know whether he was imagining it, but he thought Trevor looked a lot happier, more relaxed. Perhaps it hadn’t
been Sally’s death which had kept him awake at night: perhaps it had been covering up for Sebastian Wilde’s misdemeanours.
Perhaps the truth had been that he wasn’t as upset by his wife’s death as he’d first appeared: perhaps she had pushed him
that little bit too far when she had gone off to ‘find herself’ in the arms of Mike Battersley.

Trevor looked at Wesley expectantly. ‘Have you got anyone for Sally’s murder yet?’

‘Not yet. Sorry. But we’re following up a few new leads.’ Wesley sipped tea from the cracked mug Trevor had
given him before continuing. ‘Did Sally ever borrow money from anybody?’

‘She borrowed all over the place. Running up dirty great bills on her credit cards, getting loans.’

‘Did she ever receive demands for repayment . . . or any threats?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘I know I’ve asked you this before, but did she seem worried about anything?’

Trevor shook his head.

‘Have you ever heard of or dealt with a company called Iddacombe Finance? Did Sally borrow money from them?’

Another shake of the head. ‘I’ve looked through all her papers but I don’t remember that name. Sorry.’

‘Was Sally’s life insured?’

Trevor grinned. ‘Why do you think I’m looking so cheerful these days? Now if she hadn’t gone and sold her endowment policy,
I’d be prancing about on the deck of my own yacht by now.’

Wesley had been examining the mug, ensuring that his mouth didn’t come into contact with the more unhealthy-looking cracks.
He glanced up. ‘Endowment policy? What do you mean?’

‘She had one of those insurance policies – endowment policies, they’re called. You pay in so much every month then the insurance
company adds profits and you pick up a big lump sum at the end of twenty years or so. People use them as a way of saving.
They work as life insurance as well, so they pay out a big sum if you die before the policy matures.’

Wesley nodded. He had bought one of these policies as a long-term investment when he and Pam had first married, but he had
been too busy at the time to take much notice of the ins and outs, and until Trevor had mentioned it he had forgotten all
about it. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, the policies keep increasing in value, so if you’ve had them for long enough you can sell them to raise cash –
there’s quite a market in them: people buy second-hand policies through agents as investments. Sally had had hers for years
and she sold it through an advert in the paper.’

Gerry Heffernan gave Wesley a nudge, causing him to spill his tea. ‘So would whoever bought her policy be able to claim any
money now she’s dead?’

Trevor looked puzzled. ‘Do you know, I’ve never thought of that. I’ve no idea.’

‘You don’t happen to know who bought it, do you?’

‘Sorry. She was just after the cash to pay off her credit card bill. She wasn’t interested in who bought it.’

‘You haven’t got the advert she answered, have you?’

Trevor got up. ‘I’ll have a look through the bureau. She kept all that sort of thing in there. Hang on.’

Ten minutes later Trevor Gilbert handed them a piece of paper with a name and address. Wesley thanked him and put it in his
pocket, feeling that they might be on to something at last.

Trevor was showing them out, acting the perfect host, when Wesley heard another noise from upstairs. But this time it was
clear that it was footsteps. And they were getting nearer, treading softly on the landing. Wesley looked up. Sebastian Wilde’s
secretary was standing at the top of the stairs, slightly dishevelled, minus her glasses and wearing what looked like Trevor’s
dressing gown. Wesley looked away tactfully, but he noticed that Gerry Heffernan was staring upwards with undisguised curiosity.
Wesley nudged his arm. It was time to leave.