The Skeleton Room (5 page)

The place was as untidy as he had left it that morning. But one thing had changed: a large sheet of paper lay on the coffee
table, a message scrawled across it. Wesley picked it up.

‘Della rushed to hospital. Michael next door. Be back soon.’

Wesley sighed. Gerry Heffernan had a huge repertoire of mother-in-law jokes but none of them seemed appropriate for Pam’s
mother, Della, a woman who could best be
described as ‘giddy’, in stark contrast to Wesley’s own mother, who was a sensible family doctor with strict views on child
rearing.

He wondered what Della’s emergency could have been. Somehow he had never associated the ebullient Della with illness, but
then she was in her fifties and she did drink rather more than the government’s recommended guidelines. Wesley had always
considered her to be a silly woman who made Pam, her only daughter, seem staid in comparison. But then he had a sneaking fondness
for his mother-in-law, irritating though she could be, and he would never wish illness or disaster upon her.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he was resigned to the fact that he would have to feed himself. And there was Michael: he
would have to relieve the neighbours of the alarming responsibility of a lively toddler who had more energy than sense before
they were reduced to quivering wrecks.

When he heard the sound of a car door slamming outside, he rushed to the front door. Pam was on the drive locking the door
of her VW Golf. She turned round and gave him a weak smile. She looked tired.

‘Have you got Michael yet?’ were her first words. ‘I was about to.

I’ve only just got in myself. How’s Della? What happened?’

Pam didn’t answer for a few moments. She was intent on taking the paraphernalia of her work from the boot: files, boxes of
books, a bulging briefcase; the working day wasn’t over yet. Wesley took a box from her: her pregnancy wasn’t showing much
yet but it was a fact etched on his mind.

‘So how’s Della?’ he repeated, anxious to know how serious things were.

‘Fine. Will you fetch Michael from next door?’

‘What happened?’

She turned to him. There were dark rings beneath her eyes and her face was ashen. She looked ill. ‘My bloody
mother fell down a step outside a pub and broke her ankle. She’d been celebrating the end of term with some of her students
and she was somewhat the worse for wear, as far as I can make out.’

Wesley tried hard not to smile. Della lectured in sociology at a further education college and, ever since the restraining
influence of her late husband had been removed by his untimely death from a heart attack, she had reverted to the days of
her lost youth. Drink, parties and the occasional unsuitable man – it was as though Della was making up for lost time. And
it was Pam with her teaching career and young family who had become cast in the role of responsible adult.

After he had called next door to fetch Michael from their neighbours, a retired couple with four grandchildren of their own
who could be relied on to help out in an emergency, Wesley placed the tired toddler in his playpen and made for the kitchen.
He found a frozen shepherd’s pie and put it in the microwave, but when he took the meal to Pam, he found her slumped on the
sofa staring into space as Michael whinged with tiredness in his wooden prison.

He handed her the plate and sat down beside her. ‘Hard day?’ He tried to sound sympathetic.

‘You could say that. Thank God it’s the end of term. What about you?’

‘A lorry hijacking and we’ve identified the body that was found floating in the sea near Millicombe. And did I mention that
someone found a skeleton walled up in a secret room yesterday?’

Pam looked up from her shepherd’s pie, interested. ‘No. Where was this?’

‘At a big old house over at Chadleigh. It’s being done up and made into some sort of hotel and leisure complex – some builders
found a skeleton tied to a chair in a bricked-up room . . . just like in all the best ghost stories, only this one was for
real. The hall’s near where Neil’s working on that shipwreck.’

Pam looked away. She and Neil had gone out together at university but it hadn’t lasted long. To Neil Watson relation ships
came a poor second to archaeology, and she had soon become aware of Neil’s flatmate, Wesley’s, many attractions.

‘Chadleigh Cove, you mean? He’s told me all about it. He rang while you were out the other day.’

‘You never said.’

‘I forgot. I’ve got a lot on my plate, you know,’ she said with more than a hint of reproach. ‘If it’s not school it’s Michael
and if it’s not Michael it’s my bloody mother breaking her ankle when she’s rolling out of some pub.’

Pam put her head in her hands and Wesley put a comforting arm around her shoulder. This was real life: kids, work and exhaustion.
Not much time for the fun they used to have; not much opportunity for social life, leisure or refined cultural activities.
A simple trip to the theatre required the organisational genius of an expert in military strategy, so nowadays they didn’t
bother and slumped in front of the TV set instead.

Maybe when the kids were off their hands. Maybe when they were Della’s age they could spread their wings again. Suddenly Wesley
looked upon Della’s activities with a whole new understanding.

‘So where did you say this skeleton was found?’ she asked after a few moments.

‘Place called Chadleigh Hall.’

Pam’s eyes lit up with sudden interest. ‘It used to be a girls’ boarding school. My mother was at school there.’

Wesley looked at her, surprised. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Her family weren’t badly off and my grandfather worked abroad for a while so she boarded at Chadleigh Hall. Being locked
away with all those poor little rich girls probably accounts for Della’s left-wing politics.’ She grinned. ‘Do you think the
skeleton was a pupil who pushed the staff too far? In which case I’m surprised it wasn’t my mother.’

Wesley gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. ‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment. How long’s Della going to be in hospital?’

‘They said she’d be out soon but she’s going to have to take it easy.’ She hesitated, as if she was about to say something
else but had thought better of it. She forced herself to smile. ‘She’ll be fine. What about the body in the sea? Was it a
swimming accident or . . .?’

‘We don’t know yet. The post-mortem’s tomorrow.’ He didn’t feel inclined to talk about Sally Gilbert’s death. The thought
of it depressed him. ‘Apart from Della’s little bit of excitement, how was your day?’

‘Not too bad. Only one more day to go till the end of term. I should be crossing off the days to my release like they do in
prison.’ She looked up suddenly and smiled. ‘Mind you, things are looking up. The end-of-term presents have started to come
in. The score so far is three soaps, two scented candles, an embroidered hanky and a bottle of bubble bath. And one of the
kids gave me this.’ She reached for her handbag and took out a small oblong box. She opened it and took out a gold chain with
a small oval locket set in its centre. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’

‘Lovely,’ said Wesley, giving the object a quick glance. ‘Is it real gold?’ he joked.

Pam laughed. ‘Hardly. Probably came out of a Christmas cracker.’ She put the necklace down and read from the card that lay
inside the box. ‘To Mrs Peterson. Thank you for being my teacher and good luck with your new baby. Love from Kayleigh Dilkes.
Isn’t that lovely?’

‘It’s an improvement on an apple for the teacher.’

‘I know. It’s really sweet of her. I mean, Kayleigh’s mum can’t be well off. I think she works as a cleaner and I don’t think
there’s a dad about.’ She looked at the necklace and smiled. ‘At least I know Kayleigh didn’t pinch it out of her mum’s jewellery
box – I saw her mum hand it to her as she came into school.’

Wesley smiled and said nothing. Michael was grizzling,
ready for sleep, so Wesley trudged upstairs with the baby in his arms to do a spot of father–son bonding.

When he had left the room Pam poured herself a glass of orange juice before picking up the necklace again to have a closer
look. She ran her index finger over the delicately carved pattern, a flower with a tiny blue stone at its centre. She opened
the locket and peered inside. And when she spotted what looked like a tiny hallmark near the hinge, her heart began to beat
faster. After a few seconds she snapped it shut and threw it down on the coffee table as though the thing were too hot to
hold.

She stared at it for a few moments then picked it up again, running its fluid chain through her fingers. The more she looked
at it the more she was convinced that it possessed the mellow sheen of real gold rather than the brash glitter of a cheap
imitation. There was a small dent on the back, but even if it was damaged surely no hard-up single mother would give away
such a treasure – unless it hadn’t been hers to give in the first place. Easy come, easy go.

She held it, wishing the hallmark would disappear, wishing that the necklace would transform itself into what she had assumed
it was – a worthless piece of costume jewellery. Perhaps she should show it again to Wesley, seek his advice. But then he
was a policeman and would feel compelled to ask awkward questions about its origins. And the last thing she wanted to do was
to hurt Kayleigh’s feelings, to betray the child’s trust.

She put the necklace back in its box. There was no need to mention it to Wesley for the moment: she’d deal with it in her
own way.

She took a sip of her drink, wishing that the glass contained red wine instead of healthy orange juice. There was nothing
she could do about the necklace tonight, even if she wanted to.

Robin Carrington stood at the door of Old Coastguard
Cottage and inhaled deeply. The air was good here, unpolluted. Not like London. The dark was gathering now; not the street-lit
electrical glow that passed for darkness in the city, but a dense, velvet darkness, all enveloping. A darkness that hid all
imperfections, all wickedness.

He thought about taking a walk to the pub. But Neil Watson might be there and he feared that he had said too much already.

He left the house, glancing back at the telephone on the hall table. When he reached the lane he stopped and listened. He
could hear the regular, soporific rhythm of the sea, and he felt a sudden urge to go down to the beach, to stand with the
waves lapping at his bare feet, knowing that there was nothing between him and the French coastline but water.

He crossed the lane and started down the steep path, stopping halfway down to stare out to sea. But in the dim moonlight he
could make out only the shifting mass of water and the faint outline of the jagged, treacherous rocks.

His work for the Smithers family in distant Connecticut was almost complete, and when he had finished he would leave Devon
for good.

He would cross the angry sea and never return.

Dominic Kilburn let himself into Chadleigh Hall and stood in the entrance hall at the foot of the sweeping staircase. It would
be splendid when the work was finished; the jewel in Kilburn Leisure’s crown.

The builders had all gone home and the place was empty. He listened to the sounds of the sleeping house, the creaks and bumps
of ancient ghosts, and when he flicked a switch the bare bulbs shone; tiny glass suns, dispelling the night. At least there
was electricity in the place.

Kilburn walked through the rooms slowly, leaving his footprints in the plaster dust on the bare boards. When he reached his
destination, he stood for a while, his eyes drawn to the jagged hole in the wall; gaping and impenetrable like the entrance
to some fearful cave.

His way was barred by blue-and-white tape – a crime scene, not to be entered. But he ducked under the barrier and, with shaking
hands, took a torch from his pocket and shone it into the blackness of the tiny room.

Tears welled in George Marbis’s eyes. Even after the passage of so many years it distressed him to tell of what he had seen.
But he continued his story, his voice becoming weaker as he spoke.

Being but ten years of age, George was small and agile, and he reached the shore in the moonlight unseen by the men of the
village, who carried with them lanterns and ropes. He recalled the purposeful silence as they marched down the path towards
the sand and the screams and cries of distress from the roaring water – the cries of souls in peril.

George crouched behind a rock, hidden from view. He could see clearly in the glow of the full moon and he watched as the men
of the village waded into the rolling waves. The village blacksmith, Matthew Kilburn, went first, a rope tied fast about his
waist. George saw his face in the moonlight, saw his jaw set in determination. Kilburn strode through the waves towards the
broken wreckage of the ship, a hero ready to save the lives of the hapless sailors. George watched as he reached out to a
woman who was clinging to a mast, half conscious, expecting that any minute she would be carried to the safety of the shore
in his strong arms.

But Matthew Kilburn made no effort to pluck the woman from the angry sea. His large hands tightened
around her throat as he throttled the life from her and pushed her beneath the waves.

From
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by the Reverend Octavius Mount, Vicar of Millicombe

The Star stood in the middle of the town, in a back street near the church. Gerry Heffernan had been known to drink in there
after choir practice on a Friday night, but on a Tuesday he would most likely be at home or in the Tradmouth Arms next door
to his house on the waterfront.

It was eight o’clock and the bar was busy, filled with a cocktail of regulars and summer visitors. But as soon as Steve Carstairs
walked in, he spotted Harry sitting in the corner, a pint glass raised to his full lips. He had a little more belly and a
little less hair than when Steve had last seen him two years before, but other than that he seemed unchanged. Steve pushed
his way through the standing drinkers until he was looking down on his old colleague, a wide grin on his face.

Harry Marchbank looked up. ‘Steve, mate. How are you doing? Sit down. What’ll you have?’

‘I’ll get them, Harry. Pint of lager, is it?’

‘Well remembered. I’ll tell you one advantage this dead place has over London . . . the prices are cheaper.’ Harry laughed
and handed Steve his empty pint glass.

Five minutes later they were settled with their drinks: Harry’s pint of lager next to a bottle of some exotic brew which Steve
put to his lips at regular intervals.

After a brief exchange of news Harry looked Steve in the eye. It was time to get down to business.

‘So what brings you down here?’ Steve prompted. ‘I thought you said you’d never set foot in Tradmouth again.’

‘I never intended to but my guvnor had other ideas. He said that I knew these parts so I’d be the man for the job.’

‘What job’s this?’

‘Murder suspect’s disappeared. Well, we didn’t know he was a murder suspect until after he’d scarpered. A month ago he bumped
off his missus, and I’ll give him his due, he was very convincing – played the distraught widower to perfection. Everyone
reckoned it was accidental death, cut and dried. But then her family demanded a second postmortem which was done a few days
ago – now we’re treating her death as suspicious. Our suspect left London a couple of weeks back – said he had to get away
to do some work and told his in-laws he was heading this way. He was brought up round here and apparently he comes back regularly.’

‘Where does he stay?’

‘They don’t know.’

‘Does he know about the second post-mortem?’

‘No. He probably thinks he’s got away with it.’

‘What about his work? What does he do?’

‘He’s a . . . oh, what do they call it? He traces people’s family trees . . . got his own company on the Internet – the Root
Route, he calls it. I ask you . . .’

Steve shrugged. It sounded a funny sort of job to him.

‘He said he’d only be away a couple of weeks but now it’s almost three so I reckon this story about him working is a load
of crap. I reckon he’s decided to disappear before anyone started asking questions. Here’s as good a place as any to start
looking for him.’

‘But why have you gone to the trouble of coming down here yourself? Why not just let the local . . .’

‘Because I’d recognise the bastard anywhere. And I want him banged up.’

Steve saw bitterness in Harry’s eyes as he took a long swig of lager, as though cooling the fires of his anger. Steve wasn’t
usually a perceptive soul but something told him this wasn’t just a routine enquiry. This was personal.

There was something Harry Marchbank wasn’t telling him.

*

The next morning Gerry Heffernan sat at the breakfast table and smiled at the two young people sitting opposite him.

‘Nice, this.’

‘What is, Dad?’ It was the girl who spoke. She had a pretty, earnest face, framed by a shock of dark curly hair. She reached
for a slice of toast with slender musician’s fingers and looked at her father enquiringly, tilting her head slightly just
as her mother had done when she was alive.

‘Having you two back home.’

Rosemary Heffernan smiled. Her brother Sam said nothing. His mouth was full of toast.

‘Ran out of money, didn’t we,’ said Rosie, helping herself to cornflakes.

Heffernan grinned good-naturedly. The pair were a terrible drain on his pockets but they were all he had.

‘At least we’ve got ourselves jobs,’ said Sam as he reached for another slice of toast. ‘It’s going to be bloody hard work
this landscape gardening. Not like Madam here: playing the piano in a restaurant. What kind of job do you call that?’

‘At least it’s better than what you did last summer,’ she teased. ‘What was it? Stripogram?’

‘Kissogram,’ he corrected. ‘I never took anything off.’

‘At least that’s what he told his father.’ Heffernan grinned. ‘So Eric the Viking has finally hung up his helmet, has he?’

Sam bit into his toast again and ignored his sister’s giggles.

‘So what exactly did you wear?’ Rosie asked innocently.

As Sam kept munching his toast, his face bright red, Rosie realised how much she had missed the innocent pleasure of getting
one over on her brother.

The indulgent father leaned back in his chair. It was good to have both of them home. The place had seemed quiet since Kathy’s
death and it was refreshing to have the house
full of argument and music again after the long months of silence.

‘Dad,’ said Rosie, looking her father in the eye. ‘The job at the hotel doesn’t pay enough so I’m doing a few hours for this
cleaning agency called Ship Shape.’ She grinned. ‘It’s run by an ex-Wren from Plymouth.’

‘Surely you don’t need to take on more work.’

‘I need the money.’

Sam stood up, scattering toast crumbs on to the floor. ‘I’d better be off, Dad. See you tonight, eh?’

As his son shot out of the front door, Gerry Heffernan carried the dirty dishes to the sink and turned on the hot tap. Rosie
was still sitting at the table and made no effort to help. Then he glanced at the kitchen clock and remembered that Sam wasn’t
the only one with work to go to.

He left the dirty dishes piled up like the unsolved case files on his desk in the CID office. Something to be dealt with later.

At half past nine Wesley would have considered a sink full of washing-up an attractive option as he stood beside Heffernan
watching Colin Bowman slice into Sally Gilbert’s discoloured flesh. He hated post-mortems first thing in the morning. Or at
any time, come to that.

Both of his parents and his sister were doctors but Wesley had been born squeamish and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. When
he had witnessed his first post-mortem he had fainted, but things had gradually improved over the years. Now he could at least
look at Colin Bowman’s handi work without feeling queasy.

Sally had been an attractive young woman in life. A wife but not yet a mother, as Colin pointed out cheerfully.

When he had weighed the dead woman’s internal organs as casually as a greengrocer weighing out potatoes, he gave his tentative
verdict. ‘From the injuries, I’d say she fell into the water from a great height, possibly off a cliff, hitting the rocks
on the way down. She was certainly dead before
she hit the water. We’ll have to wait for the toxicology report before we know whether she was under the influence of drink
or drugs.’

‘So it could have been an accident?’

‘There’s some bruising that could have been caused before her death. In fact there are marks on the top of her arms, just
as though somebody’s grabbed her. And look at her hands.’ He held up the corpse’s right hand. ‘Badly bruised, and some of
the small bones have been broken – almost as if someone’s stamped on them.’

Wesley winced at the thought. ‘You mean she might have been pushed off a cliff into the sea and then, when she tried to cling
on, her killer stamped on her hands?’ He wanted to pin the pathologist down to a definite sequence of events.

‘It’s possible.’

‘Oh, come on, Colin, give us a break. Did she fall or was she pushed?’ Gerry Heffernan lacked Wesley’s diplomacy and patience.

‘All I can say is that the injuries are consistent with Wesley’s theory. Come over and have a look.’

Wesley declined Colin’s invitation to make a close examination of the dead woman’s arms and hands, and thought for a few moments
before asking his next question. ‘Had she eaten before she died?’

Colin nodded. ‘She’d partaken of a traditional Devon cream tea shortly before her death. Could do worse for a last meal, I
suppose.’

‘It’s just that her friend Lisa Marriott said Sally Gilbert left the house just after lunch saying she’d be a couple of hours.
So she could have met her killer, had a cream tea with him then died soon afterwards. At least that gives us an idea of the
possible time of death, but we still don’t know where she went into the sea. Do we order a search of the whole coastline?’

‘Oh, I don’t think there’ll be any need for that, Wes,’ the chief inspector said with a smug grin. ‘I know someone
who’ll be able to tell us where she went in.’

Wesley looked sceptical. He didn’t know how his boss was going to come up with the necessary information without a good deal
of routine police work . . . short of consulting a very reliable clairvoyant.

‘What about the bones from Chadleigh Hall?’ Heffernan asked suddenly.

‘I’ve had a good look at them. When I’ve cleaned myself up we’ll go and see, shall we?’

Fifteen minutes later they were looking down at the yellowing bones of the Chadleigh Hall skeleton. It looked smaller than
it had done in that room of horror. Smaller and more vulnerable. The bones of a young girl.

‘Interesting this one, Gerry, but I must say I can’t really tell you much about her.’

‘It is a “her”, then?’ Wesley wanted to be certain.

‘Oh yes. A female in her mid to late teens. She was five foot three inches tall and had good teeth with no dental work. She
had the good fortune to be well nourished, by the look of the bones, and there are no obvious signs of disease. However, the
cause of death isn’t obvious either.’

‘How old is it, then?’

Colin Bowman smiled. ‘That’s more Wesley’s province than mine. She could have been in there twenty years or a couple of hundred,
which I must say seems more likely given the circumstances. But there’s no way of confirming that without the appropriate
tests.’

‘Which can take months,’ said Wesley with what sounded like disappointment. ‘But a thorough examination of the room she was
found in might give us a clue. Neil did volunteer to have a look at it with me.’

‘Okay,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Help yourself. The room’s still sealed off as a crime scene just in case, so hopefully
nobody will have touched it. And I’d like to get some background on the place. It used to be a girls’ school. I want to find
out if any of the girls went missing.’

‘Actually my mother-in-law is an old girl of Chadleigh Hall.’

Heffernan started to chuckle, a merry sound that seemed inappropriate in a mortuary. ‘Red Della . . . at a boarding school
for young ladies? I don’t believe that.’

‘I was quite surprised myself. As a matter of fact Della’s here in the hospital. She broke her leg.’

‘How did she do that?’ Heffernan asked.

‘Coming out of a pub, would you believe.’

Heffernan nodded, unsurprised.

‘We could go and have a word with her if you like.’

Colin Bowman looked disappointed. ‘I was hoping you’d stay for coffee.’ He looked Heffernan in the eye. ‘There’s chocolate
cake,’ he added, as tempting as Eve’s serpent.

Gerry Heffernan patted his substantial stomach and moistened his lips. As he had said to Wesley on more than one occasion,
they certainly knew how to live down at the mortuary. ‘Then how can we refuse, eh?’

They proceeded down the white corridor towards Colin’s cosy office. They would make the most of their opportunities while
they could.

They found Della easily enough. She was sitting up in bed reading a magazine that featured the word ‘sex’ several times on
the front cover in bold letters.

She looked up and a wide smile spread across her face. ‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite son-in-law. If you’ve brought grapes
with you I hope that they’ve been crushed and fermented and poured into a bottle. You can’t get a drink in here for love nor
money.’

‘Hello, Della. I’ve brought Gerry with me. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

She held her arms out. ‘Put the handcuffs on, then, I’ll come quietly. What am I charged with? Loitering on licensed premises
or corrupting the young? I plead guilty to both charges.’

Heffernan gave Wesley a look of sympathy.