The Skeleton Room (6 page)

‘I hoped you’d give us some information, that’s all.’

Della snorted and turned her attention to an article on how to please your man in the bedroom.

‘It’s about your old school. Chadleigh Hall.’

Della looked up from her magazine. ‘What about it?’

‘When were you there?’

She thought for a moment. ‘1960 to ’67. Why?’

‘It’s a bit of a long shot but a skeleton was found in a small sealed chamber off one of the first-floor rooms.’

Della raised her eyebrows, suddenly interested.

‘Of course, it could have been there for years, but I wondered if there was any building work done in the time you were there.
Or anything strange you remember. Did any of the girls go missing or were there any stories you remember hearing about the
house . . . or any rumours? Anything, really. We’re clutching at straws but we’ve got to start somewhere.’

Della frowned. ‘Whereabouts on the first floor?’

‘If you go up the main staircase and turn left you go through one large room and then on into another. It was probably a bedroom
when the hall was built. There was a small room, about eight foot square, leading off the second room, and it had been sealed
up with the skeleton inside.’

Della sat in silent concentration, dredging the memories of her distant schooldays. After a couple of minutes she spoke. ‘That
would have been the headmistress’s room. I remember it well. I spent a lot of time waiting outside it. There were workmen
about when I was . . . Oh, let me think . . . I must have been in my fourth or fifth year. That would have been 1964 or 1965,
I suppose. They did a lot of work on the building. I think they knocked old Frostie’s room about a bit, but I can’t really
remember.’

‘Old Frostie?’

‘The headmistress. Miss Snowman. Commonly known as Frostie.’

Wesley nodded. He had always felt some sympathy for
teachers with unusual names, knowing the cruelties of the young.

‘The workmen must have thought their ship had come in – all those nubile young virgins who hadn’t seen anything male in years
apart from the ninety-year-old gardener and his neutered tomcat.’

‘And do you remember if any of those nubile young virgins went missing around that time? Did any girl leave unexpectedly?’

She closed her eyes, trying to recall the past. ‘I seem to remember hearing that one of the older girls had run away around
that time but I shouldn’t have thought that was uncommon at boarding schools in those days. I think the average modern women’s
prison would seem like a holiday camp compared with what we had to put up with. Cold baths and lots of jolly hockey. I contemplated
running away myself at times. I’ll have a think about it and see if I can remember anything more. After all, there’s nothing
much else to do in this place, is there?’

They took their leave of Della, not knowing whether she had told them anything useful or not . . . and promising that next
time they visited they would bring a discreetly hidden bottle.

When Gerry Heffernan walked into the CID office he had a sudden feeling that there was something out of place in his domain.

Then he saw what it was. Harry Marchbank was sitting at Steve Carstairs’ desk, scratching his thinning hair. When he spotted
Heffernan he stood up and the DCI halted suddenly. Wesley Peterson, following behind, narrowly avoided cannoning into him.

It was Heffernan who spoke first. ‘What are you doing back on my patch? I thought I’d got rid of you a couple of years ago.’

The boss’s words lacked their usual good humour. He meant what he said. As Wesley had always got on well with
Gerry Heffernan, this was a side of the man he rarely, if ever, saw.

Marchbank had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘I’m, er . . . here on official business, sir. I’ve reason to believe that
a murder suspect from our patch has headed this way and my guvnor’s sent me to track him down.’

‘Without letting us know?’ There was menace in Heffernan’s voice.

‘I said I knew the local lads here so it’d be all right.’

‘What makes you think that, then?’

Marchbank didn’t answer.

At that moment Steve Carstairs appeared at the office door and hesitated. Then he put his head down, scurried in and sat at
his desk.

Heffernan opened the door to his office and indicated by a jerk of the head that Harry Marchbank should step inside. He didn’t
want the whole office to hear what he had to say.

‘You come in and all, Wes. Whatever he has to say for himself he can say in front of you.’

Wesley followed them in reluctantly. He didn’t want to get involved in old office enmities but it looked as if he had no option.
As Marchbank sat down Heffernan glowered at him from the other side of the desk. The newcomer ignored Wesley, who perched
on the office’s spare chair, feeling awkward.

‘Right. Why are you here? And I want the truth.’

‘Like I said, I’m looking for a suspect. He’s wanted for murdering his wife.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few weeks back – end of June.’

‘You’d better tell me the whole story.’ Heffernan glanced at Wesley, who sat watching the proceedings like an umpire, determined
to stay neutral if possible.

‘This bloke Robin Carrington hasn’t got two pennies to rub together. Then his mum dies and he inherits her house and moves
from a seedy bed-sit into a nice four-bedroomed place. But the place costs a fortune to keep up so he gets
into a load of debt. Anyway, a year ago he gets married to a young nurse called Harriet Marsden, and once he’s married he
insures Harriet for a fortune, almost three-quarters of a million. Only it doesn’t work the other way – he’s not heavily insured,
just Harriet. Got it so far?’

Heffernan nodded and looked at Wesley, who, suspecting some kind of reaction was needed, nodded too.

‘A few weeks ago the nice house catches fire. His mum had had the place for years and she’d never renewed the wiring and the
fire investigators reckon that it was an electrical fire. Anyway, a body was found in the burned-out house. Harriet had been
home alone ’cause she was supposed to be on night duty and Carrington had gone out for the day, or so he said. It seemed like
an open-and-shut case and everyone reckoned that Harriet had died in the fire: accidental death. But once her mother learned
about the insurance she didn’t let it rest. She demanded a second post-mortem and last week she got it. And it came up with
some interesting findings.’ He paused, looking at his audience, who were waiting expectantly for the punch line. ‘The second
pathologist reckoned that she’d been dead when the fire started so the case has been reopened.’

‘And Carrington?’ asked Heffernan.

‘He scarpered a couple of weeks after Harriet died, saying he was off to do some work in Devon. He doesn’t know about the
second post-mortem. He thinks he’s in the clear.’

‘What about Carrington’s alibi for the time of Harriet’s death?’ Wesley asked.

Marchbank turned to him, the trace of a sneer on his lips. Then he turned back and addressed Gerry Heffernan.

‘He claimed that he was in some library all day, then spent the evening in a pub. We’ve checked out the library – it appears
he was there. And he says he met his solicitor in the pub – a bloke called Nichols who’s not known for his love of the Metropolitan
Police Force. He’s friendly with more villains than I’ve had hot dinners.’

‘That doesn’t mean he was lying on this occasion,’ said Wesley, earning himself another sneering glance.

‘So do you know where to find this Carrington?’ Heffernan asked. He would have hated to admit it but Harry Marchbank’s story
had got him intrigued.

‘Somewhere in Devon – that’s all he told Harriet’s mum.’

‘Devon’s a big county.’

‘Yeah, but he knows this area. He was brought up in Neston and he comes down this way for a couple of weeks every year. He
was due back in London a few days ago but there’s no sign of him.’

‘Where does he usually stay when he comes down here?’

‘Harriet’s mum didn’t know.’

‘So we can presume he’s in some hotel or bed and breakfast or renting a cottage?’

Harry Marchbank looked at Wesley. His mouth smiled but his eyes didn’t. ‘Very clever,’ he said patronisingly.

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘So what do you want us to do about it?’

‘Just a bit of cooperation, that’s all. I might need some manpower for an arrest or . . .’

‘We’re not sitting on our backsides twiddling our thumbs here, you know. We’ve got a lorry hijack and a couple of suspicious
deaths. And that’s not counting the usual holiday crime wave; thefts from yachts, burglaries . . .’

‘Yeah, right. I get the point. I won’t call on the local force unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘But you’ll keep me informed of what you’re up to. I like to know everything that goes on around here. And if you put a foot
wrong I’ll be on to your guvnor right away. That clear?’ Heffernan looked Marchbank in the eye, challenging.

‘Fair enough.’

‘Fair enough, sir,’ Heffernan barked.

Wesley looked at him, surprised. For an easygoing man, Heffernan was doing a fair impression of the nastier kind of sergeant-major.

Marchbank strolled from the DCI’s office, his eyes scanning the outer office for familiar faces. They lighted on Rachel Tracey,
who had just sat down at her desk, her healthy lunch of sandwich and fruit set before her.

He made his way over and sat on the corner of her desk. ‘Long time no see, Rachel. I hear you’ve made DS. Congratulations.’
He picked up the banana that lay on her desk. ‘This for the new DI, is it?’ He smirked unpleasantly and she snatched the fruit
from him.

‘Piss off, Harry. I thought I’d seen the last of you.’

‘You might be seeing a lot more of me if you play your cards right.’

She turned away. It was best to ignore pests.

‘Do you know you can see right through that blouse in a certain light,’ was Marchbank’s parting shot.

She looked up and saw that Wesley had emerged from Heffernan’s office to watch their visitor leave. Her eyes met his and she
smiled.

‘What’s he doing here?’ she asked.

‘Looking for a suspect. You sound as if you’re not pleased to see him.’

‘I’ll say I’m not. Harry Marchbank is not a nice man.’

Steve Carstairs, at the desk over by the window, kept his head down and said nothing.

Although Sam Heffernan had drunk three cups of strong tea during the course of the morning, he had had nothing else since
breakfast and his stomach told him it was high time he had something to eat. He thrust his spade into the dry soil. His hands
were sore and blistered with the unaccustomed effort of manual work, but he carried on, uncomplaining. There was no way he
wanted his new workmates to think he wasn’t up to it. The sweat dripped down his forehead and tickled his nose, forming an
annoying dewdrop at the end. When he wiped it away with a filthy hand he smelled the damp, slightly rotten aroma of newly
turned soil on his fingers.

The man he knew only as Andy stopped work and leaned on his spade. ‘Come on, Sam, get your back into it or we’ll be here till
next year.’

Sam renewed his efforts and Andy turned to the other man, who Sam knew as Keith. ‘He’s not doing bad for a beginner, is he?’
The remark was followed by hearty laughter, as if the two men were sharing a private joke. Sam thought it best to smile and
say nothing. Show willing but don’t rock the boat.

‘I reckon it’s dinner-time,’ Andy announced with authority. ‘You brought something with you, Sam?’

Sam looked at him, puzzled.

‘You brought something to eat? Sandwiches?’

Sam felt himself blushing. ‘I’ll, er, go down to the shops and . . .’

‘Bloody long walk to the shops.’ Another gale of private laughter.

Sam knew they were right. It was a mile at least into Tradmouth. And it would all be uphill on the way back. He cursed his
lapse of memory. He had been in a rush to get to his new job on time and lunch had been the last thing on his mind.

It was best to get it over with. He thrust his spade into the ground with a violence that surprised him and began to walk
around the side of the house towards the gate.

‘Hello. Don’t tell me you’ve finished already.’

He swung round and saw the lady of the house emerging from the kitchen door. He had seen her when she had brought out mugs
of tea to the thirsty workers. She was a tall woman with short hair, fair turning to grey. She looked sympathetic and capable,
the sort who might well be a former nursing sister or teacher. But she was also attractive for her age, which Sam estimated
to be around the mid-fifties, and she had a figure that would have been more fashionable in the ample days of Marilyn Monroe
than the lean times Sam had known since he had first noticed that girls were different from boys.

‘How’s the work coming on?’

‘Er, fine. I’m, er, just going out to get something to eat. I forgot to bring any lunch. It’s my first day and . . .’ The
sentence trailed off. He could think of nothing more to say. Perhaps he had said too much already, but there was something
motherly about the woman, something that invited confidences.

‘There’s no need for you to go all the way to the shops,’ she said with a sympathetic smile. ‘I can make you a sandwich.’
She suddenly frowned, as if she feared she’d made a terrible faux pas. ‘Is that all right? If you’d rather . . .’

‘No, that’s great. Thanks.’

‘Come on into the kitchen. No need to let the others know you’re getting special treatment.’

Sam followed her into the large kitchen, careful to take off his muddy boots before stepping over the threshold.

‘I’ve got some smoked salmon in the fridge. Is that okay?’

Sam nodded eagerly. He had a weakness for smoked salmon but he wouldn’t have liked to have consumed it in front of Andy and
Keith, who would probably consider that such refined tastes cast doubt on his masculinity. ‘This is very good of you, Mrs
. . . er . . .’

‘Carole. Carole Sanders. And you’re . . .?’

‘Sam Heffernan.’

‘And it’s your first day with Tradmouth Landscapes?’