The Skeleton Room (37 page)

It was Sam who spoke. ‘No. We told her we wouldn’t be coming. We were supposed to be working on a job in Stokeworthy, but
then the York stone was delivered to the yard so we thought we’d drop it off on the way.’ He looked
at Wesley innocently, unaware of the implications of what he had said.

Wesley looked down at the hole and knew it for what it was: an empty grave waiting for an occupant. A grave that would be
filled in before the gardeners showed up again to cover it with slabs of stone. Something told him that Sandra Bracewell might
not be far away, either dead or waiting for Carole Sanders to come back so she could dispose of her.

He ran to the front of the house, where half a dozen uniformed officers in shirtsleeves were preparing to leave. They looked
mildly annoyed when Wesley gave the order to search the whole place including the outbuildings again, and half an hour later
they reported that their efforts had been fruitless. There was still no sign of Sandra Bracewell. She wasn’t anywhere on the
premises, dead or alive.

For a few moments he suspected that Carole Sanders might have been telling the truth; that something had gone wrong with Sandra’s
plans and she had sent her innocent friend, Carole, to retrieve incriminating evidence for her.

But someone had dug the hole in the patio: and that someone hadn’t been the gardeners or the police. It may have been Sandra,
preparing to dispose of Carole on her return. But why?

As the officers climbed into their cars, Wesley sat down on the front doorstep and put his head in his hands.

‘So what’s going on?’

Wesley glanced up and saw Sam Heffernan looking down on him. ‘They’re looking for a woman,’ he said.

‘Who? Carole?’

‘No, a friend of Carole’s. Her name’s Sandra Bracewell.’

‘And you think she’s here? Is she supposed to be hiding out or what?’

Wesley didn’t answer.

‘Tried the loft?’

‘Yes.’

‘The cellar?’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘Yes there is. There’s a wine cellar under the pantry. There’s a trapdoor.’

Wesley stood up so quickly that he felt dizzy. ‘Show me.’

Sam led the way into the kitchen. He opened the pantry door, squatted down and pulled the ring set in the floor. When the
trapdoor was open, Wesley knelt down and felt inside, looking for a light switch. His searching fingers found it and soon
the tiny cellar was flooded with light.

Sam was talking, asking questions, but Wesley wasn’t listening. His eyes were on the small, lifeless figure, slumped like
a rag doll on the cold stones beneath.

Peter Bracewell wept. Wesley and Rachel waited patiently and dispensed tea and sympathy in the interview room – you couldn’t
rush these things. It was over half an hour before he felt up to answering questions.

‘What can you tell me about Chadleigh Holdings?’ Wesley began quietly.

Peter dried his eyes and blew his nose on a white handkerchief wet with his tears. ‘There’s nothing much to tell.’ He hesitated.
‘A few years ago Carole set up a bank account in the name of a company and she asked Sandra and another woman, her cleaner
I think it was, to sign the cheques. She said it was all to do with stocks and shares and she didn’t want anything in her
name because of tax. I don’t understand these things but it sounded . . . well, it’s the sort of thing people do when they’re
in the know, isn’t it.’

Rachel nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘All Sandra had to do was sign a cheque about once a year and Carole gave her a hundred pounds each time – I suppose she paid
the other woman the same. I thought it was generous but . . .’

‘And you had no suspicions?’

Peter shook his head.

Wesley looked down, studying his hands. He didn’t like what he had to say next but it had to be said. ‘Mrs Sanders denies
everything, you know. She claims that Sandra was behind the whole thing.’

‘Sandra wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Peter said indignantly.

‘One of the victims’ handbags was found at your home.’ Wesley hated himself for playing devil’s advocate, but someone had
to. ‘And when we called at your house the other day I noticed that you had a brand-new car in your drive. Where did you get
the money for that?’ He knew the question was impertinent but Peter Bracewell would face some tough questions from Carole
Sanders’ defence lawyer at any trial – and Carole would pick the best available. She could afford to.

Peter sat up straight and looked mildly offended. ‘If you must know, my father died last year and left us some money. You
can check if you like.’

Wesley left the interview room, satisfied that Peter was telling the truth. He could only think that Carole had considered
Sandra, like Brenda, a liability. Like Brenda, Sandra had been drugged. The same method for both.

He guessed that Carole was about to wind up Chadleigh Holdings. Perhaps she was planning to open a new account with different
signatories, keeping one step ahead of the game. Carole Sanders was a clever woman and a convincing one – until he had found
Sandra, he had almost believed in her innocence. He just hoped that she wouldn’t wriggle out of their clutches for lack of
evidence that would stand up in court. If Sandra wasn’t in a position to testify against her, Carole’s lawyers would try to
twist the facts to her advantage.

When he entered the CID office Steve Carstairs looked up. ‘Your wife phoned.’

‘Thanks, Steve,’ Wesley said, making a mental note to ring her when he had a free moment.

‘She said it was urgent. Said it was about Kayleigh.’

Wesley picked up the receiver and dialled his home number. After a long conversation, he caught the attention of DC Paul Johnson,
who was returning from the photocopier. ‘Paul, will you get round to this address and take a statement from a lady called
Jackie Brice. Come back as soon as you’ve got it: it’s urgent. Okay?’ Paul took the sheet of paper Wesley held out to him.

As Paul hurried out, Wesley smiled. Carole Sanders was a clever woman all right but she had made a serious mistake.

An hour and a half later, as he and Rachel made their way down to the interview room, he felt in his pocket and his fingers
touched the evidence.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Rachel asked.

‘I didn’t realise I was.’

‘You look pleased about something,’ she said, her head tilted to one side coquettishly. ‘Are you going to tell me what it
is?’

‘You’ll find out.’

He opened the door. Carole Sanders was sitting there beside a plump solicitor who wore a suit that was beyond a policeman’s
pocket.

‘My client denies all the charges.’

‘So she’s sticking to the story that Sandra Bracewell was behind it all?’

‘Indeed. We’ve been over it time and time again. My client had been very worried about Mrs Bracewell’s mental state and erratic
behaviour for some time. This whole thing has been most distressing for her, and the fact that Mrs Bracewell chose to kill
herself at Gallows House . . .’

Wesley sat down and leaned across the table. The solicitor fell silent.

‘My wife is a teacher. One of the pupils in her class last year was called Kayleigh Dilkes, daughter of the late Brenda Dilkes.’
He noticed that Carole Sanders’ mask of injured innocence had slipped and she was starting to look uncomfortable. ‘Kayleigh
gave my wife a rather expensive necklace as a present. My wife felt awkward about this and
asked where the necklace had come from.’ He looked at the solicitor. ‘Indeed, whether it was Kayleigh’s to give. Kayleigh
assured her that her mother had been given the necklace. Her mother used to be your cleaner, didn’t she, Mrs Sanders?’

‘She cleaned for lots of people,’ Carole said defensively. ‘She cleaned at one of Dominic Kilburn’s hotels and for a family
called Iddacombe and . . .’

‘Is that where you got the name Iddacombe Finance from? The letters the victims received were all from a firm called Iddacombe
Finance promising them a lot of money.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Theresa Palsow, the woman who fell from the cliff today, said she received a letter from Iddacombe Finance. She said you
asked for it as proof of her identity. She says you took it.’

‘I’ve never heard of Iddacombe Finance. Sandra had asked me to get a letter off her but she said she hadn’t brought it with
her.’ She spoke the words with such confidence that Wesley could almost have believed they were true.

He leaned forward again, confidentially. ‘The necklace Kayleigh Dilkes gave my wife was identified as the one Sally Gilbert
was wearing on the day she died. And I think we can assume that her murderer took it. So how did it get from Sally Gilbert’s
neck into the possession of Kayleigh Dilkes?’

‘I really have no idea,’ Carole said innocently. ‘Perhaps Sandra gave it to Brenda at work. They both work at the Tradfield
Manor, you know.’

‘Where is this leading?’ the solicitor enquired in a bored voice.

Wesley picked up Jackie’s statement and began to read. ‘I met Kayleigh Dilkes and, aware that Kayleigh’s class teacher, Mrs
Pamela Peterson, was worried about the origins of a necklace Kayleigh had given her as a present, I asked her where her mother
had obtained it.’

‘Is this relevant?’ the solicitor said uneasily.

‘Kayleigh said that she got it off an Auntie Carole, who’s very nice and gives her mummy things. I asked her if she was sure
about this and she said she was.’

The solicitor shifted uncomfortably. ‘I hardly think the hearsay evidence of a child . . .’

Wesley looked at Carole, who was sitting stony faced, then produced a plastic bag from his pocket containing an envelope.
‘And there’s another thing. This envelope came from your house. You had written a note on it for your landscape gardeners.
One of them, our chief inspector’s son, put it in his pocket and forgot about it until his sister needed some scrap paper
to leave her father a note.’ He looked at the solicitor, who was glowering at him suspiciously, and pulled another plastic
bag from his pocket with another envelope inside, feeling rather like a conjuror producing rabbits.

‘And this envelope was received by Sally Gilbert. Her murderer sent it, arranging to meet her on Monks Island. It’s identical
to the one Sam Heffernan took from your house, and Theresa Palsow says it’s identical to the one she received – the one you
took off her. And it’s an unusual make. Very expensive: only available at one outlet in Tradmouth. You like expensive things,
don’t you, Mrs Sanders? You have a part time job, I believe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘In Tradmouth.’

‘What kind of work do you do, Mrs Sanders?’

‘I work in an insurance office.’

‘Is that how you hit on the idea of getting a regular income through murder?’

‘I advise you not to answer,’ the solicitor said, loudly, for the benefit of the tape.

She pressed her lips together and said nothing.

‘And there’s something else,’ Wesley said casually. ‘We’ve found your thumbprint inside the flap of the
envelope you sent to Sally Gilbert. I’m sorry, Mrs Sanders, but it looks as though we have enough evidence now to prove your
guilt.’

Wesley smiled and waited. Rachel stared at the woman, watching for any sign. The solicitor fidgeted.

There was a knock on the door and Trish Walton tiptoed in and put a note in Wesley’s hand. When he had read it he looked Carole
Sanders in the eye.

‘I forgot to tell you that Sandra Bracewell was still alive when they found her.’

Carole’s eyes widened. ‘I thought you said she was dead.’

‘I didn’t say she was; you assumed it. She was rushed to intensive care and the doctors thought it was touch and go. They
said if she’d been found half an hour later she might not have made it. But you’ll be pleased to know she’s just come round,
so we hope that soon she’ll be able to give her side of the story.’

Carole sat back as though she’d been slapped in the face.

The solicitor leaned across to her. ‘You still don’t have to say anything.’

Carole turned to him and opened her mouth to speak, but she bit back the words.

‘It’s over, Carole,’ said Wesley softly. ‘We’ve got Theresa’s evidence, Kayleigh’s evidence, the fingerprint evidence . .
. and Sandra. And the letters had to be written on a computer. I can send someone to the office where you work to have a look
at the one you use: even if the letters have been deleted they can still be found by our people from Forensics. And of course
there might be some forensic evidence from Brenda Dilkes’s place.’

He sat there expectantly for a few seconds before addressing the solicitor. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting a word with your
client?’

But before the man had had a chance to answer, Carole began to speak quietly. ‘Do you know what it’s like to be used to having
everything then suddenly it’s all gone . . .
taken away?’ She played with her wedding ring. ‘My late husband was a gambler: he lost all his money then he went through
mine . . . all the money my parents had left me. I’d put the house in my name so a least we kept a roof over our heads, but
everything else went to feed his nasty little habits. We had debt collectors knocking on the door and we lived hand to mouth
for years.’

She paused. Wesley noted the hard determination on her face. She looked quite unlike the pleasant, motherly Carole Sanders
he had first met. Was she just good at acting a part? he wondered. Or perhaps it was her crimes which had enabled her to become
the comfortably off lady bountiful they had first seen. Perhaps she had just been willing to go farther than most to achieve
the station in life she yearned for.

She continued. ‘When he died I sold up and moved back to Tradmouth. Gallows House needed a lot of renovation and, although
I could afford to buy it, I couldn’t afford the redecoration or lifestyle to go with it. I took a job with an insurance company
doing the typing to make ends meet and when I found that money was still tight I thought I was going to lose the house and
I began to get desperate. I was brought up with certain expectations, you see. I expected a nice house, a cleaner and expensive
things around me and . . .’ She paused. ‘Then one day somebody in the office made a joke. They said a good way to make easy
money is to buy up a stranger’s endowment policy, bump them off and collect on the insurance. You can’t insure a stranger’s
life but endowment policies are different. People sell the policies to raise cash – traded policies, they’re called – but
what they often don’t realise is that the life insurance which applies to the original owner isn’t sold on with the policy
– if the person who originally took the policy out dies, the new owner gets the money.’