The Shadow Collector (11 page)

‘I wanted to get back.’

‘What for?’

‘Things I needed.’

‘What things?’ Wesley asked.

No reply.

‘You disappeared sharpish yesterday after that woman was found dead,’ said Gerry.

Zac’s fingers began to drum on the table. ‘It freaked me out.’

Wesley asked the next question. ‘Where did you stay last night?’

‘Morbay. The Riviera Towers.’ He gave a nervous grin. ‘The best in town.’

‘Rupert Raybourn checked into the Marina Hotel in Tradmouth.’

‘I know. But I fancied the Riviera.’

‘Why’s that?’ Gerry leaned forward, invading the man’s personal space.

Zac sat back in his seat, a momentary flash of panic in his eyes. ‘I’d heard it was good.’

‘Your home address is in Essex, I believe,’ said Wesley.

‘That’s right.’

‘Funny. I could have sworn I could hear a hint of Devon in your accent.’

Zac shrugged. ‘I pick up the local accent wherever I go.’ He began to examine his fingernails.

‘You must have known we’d need to talk to everyone at Jessop’s Farm,’ said Wesley. ‘Surely you realise that disappearing like
that looks suspicious.’

Zac James shrugged again. ‘I didn’t see anything or hear anything. I don’t even know who that woman was.’

‘She was a journalist and she was down here
investigating one of the contestants on
Celebrity Farm
,’ said Gerry. ‘She’d had a sniff of scandal.’

‘Wasn’t me. Must have been Rupert,’ Zac said quickly as though he was desperate to shift the blame.

‘Could she have been looking for some dirt on you? Your cocaine habit, for instance? Is that why you were off to London? Supplies
running out?’

He straightened his back, suddenly alert, and Wesley knew Gerry had hit on the truth. ‘So? It’s no big deal. And I’d hardly
kill someone to keep it out of the papers ’cause it’s already common knowledge. And I only use – I don’t deal.’

‘You still fled the scene of a murder,’ said Wesley.

‘The killer might have been after me. That woman might have got killed by mistake. You attract nutters when you’re a celebrity.
Never heard of stalkers?’ he added in a self-righteous whine.

Wesley watched him. He was clearly feeling sorry for himself, believing his own publicity.

‘So you’ve had trouble with stalkers, have you?’ Gerry asked.

‘Yeah.’ He suddenly seemed unsure of himself. ‘Some of them think you’re in love with them. When it dawns on them you’re not,
things can get nasty.’

‘So you think you might have been the target?’ Wesley could hear the sarcasm in Gerry’s voice. ‘Surely even a very short-sighted
murderer wouldn’t mistake the victim for you in broad daylight. Wrong sex for a start.’

The duty solicitor sighed and began to play with his pen. His unwilling client was doing himself no favours.

‘The victim’s name was Boo Flecker. Ever heard of her?’

Zac shook his head.

‘Ever heard of Lilith Benley?’

He focused his eyes on the table top. ‘No. Who is she?’

‘Her and her mother murdered two girls eighteen years back. She was released from jail a couple of weeks ago and she came
home to West Fretham. Her land butts onto the top field where the body was found.’

‘So?’

‘Just saying.’ Gerry stood up. ‘That’s all for now, Mr James. I’ll send someone to take your statement. Don’t leave the area
again without telling us, will you? We may need to talk to you again.’

As they were about to leave the room, Zac James spoke. ‘Look, I had no reason to kill this bird I’d never heard of … but maybe
Rupert did.’

As they walked down the corridor, Wesley thought Zac James might have a point. He wanted to speak to Raybourn again. And he
wanted the truth this time.

As soon as the phone rang Pam knew it would be Wesley apologising for being late again. She had become used to it long ago
… giving the children their dinner alone and then watching TV and marking books with a solitary glass of wine. When you marry
a policeman it comes with the ‘for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health’ bit.

But today she wished more than ever that he was there. She’d rung the hospital earlier and been told Neil was ‘stable’. She’d
known him since university – she’d even gone out with him for a short time before she met Wesley. Although she knew they would
have been a disaster as a couple, Neil being even more obsessed by archaeology than Wesley was with his police work, he was
part of her life. And she couldn’t stand the thought of him lying in that hospital bed without company.

Fortunately both children were booked to have tea with friends after school so as soon as she escaped work, avoiding the head
teacher who was prowling the corridors in search of members of staff to harass, she drove straight to Tradmouth Hospital.
She found Neil surrounded by his colleagues from the dig at Princes Bower. They were talking shop and Neil lay propped up
on his pillows, smiling weakly while a bearded man talked about a visit to a house to check out a cellar. She was reminded
of a seventeenth-century painting she’d seen once of a deathbed scene. The man about to meet his Maker bidding farewell to
his devoted family.

When Neil saw her he raised a weak hand in greeting while the colleagues shifted round to make room for her.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, aware that he’d probably been asked the same question a thousand times already. But she
wasn’t in the mood to be original.

‘Lots of cuts and bruises and they reckon I had concussion.’ He gave a tentative nod towards his colleagues. ‘I was just telling
this lot they operated on my leg this morning and it went okay. They’ve done more scans and x-rays but they haven’t told me
much apart from the fact that I’ve got a couple of fractures and three broken ribs.’

‘He’s indestructible,’ said the bearded man. ‘Remember that time up on Dartmoor when that trench collapsed and you climbed
out looking like the creature from the black lagoon?’ The assembled archaeologists chuckled dutifully. They were doing their
best to keep Neil’s spirits up. But he looked so bad that Pam felt like screaming at them to get real.

‘Has Wes arranged to get that thing from my car yet?’

‘I don’t know. What is it?’

‘That’s the million dollar question.’

The archaeologists made noises of agreement. Whatever the mysterious object was, it was causing some interest.

‘Will you remind him when you see him?’

‘I don’t know what time that’ll be. He’s working on a murder case and he’ll be late.’ She stood up. Her fears that Neil was
lying there alone and in pain had turned out to be unfounded and she had things to do. ‘I’d better leave you to it.’

‘You’ll come again, won’t you?’

Pam smiled. ‘Try and stop me.’ She knew she was doing the same as his colleagues; masking her worry with forced jollity.

She had never seen Neil look so ill and frail. It was as though all the certainties of life and friendship had been shaken
up and broken into shattered shards. If Wesley had been there he would have known how she felt. But he wasn’t.

She drove home, picking up the children from their respective friends’ houses on the way. She’d decided not to tell them about
Neil’s misfortune just yet. She’d wait until she knew more.

Michael was quiet, as if he was nursing some precious but uncomfortable secret, but Amelia was chatty as usual. She was the
type of child who never shut up but at least you could always tell what she was thinking, unlike her elder brother.

Once back home she put on her stern teacher act, the one she’d been putting on all day for her class, and ordered homework.
Amelia settled down at the dining room table but Michael just sat staring at the TV.

‘Haven’t got any homework,’ he said, twisting his head to see round her as she stood in front of the screen.

‘Of course you have. Get on with it.’ She switched the TV off and looked at the boy with his olive-brown skin and his black
wavy hair. Up until a few weeks ago he’d been such a studious child and she felt worried about this change in her son. She
had sometimes seen it in children she taught and had always been ready with advice for their concerned parents. But this was
her own child and she was floundering. When Wesley had some free time she’d ask him to intervene. Michael might take more
notice of his father. A mother’s nagging words can become so familiar that they float over a child’s head.

She watched as Michael dragged his rucksack along the floor into the dining room to join his sister, a picture of reluctance.
He took out some books and placed them in front of him, regarding them with distaste for a while before he picked up a pen.
Then she watched in horror as he began to doodle absentmindedly on the blank page of an exercise book.

‘What are you doing? Where’s your homework?’

‘Told you. Haven’t got any.’

‘You must have some. What about your exam?’

He turned to face her, his brown eyes defiant. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Then have a look at one of the work books I bought you.’

As a teacher’s child Michael had always been well supplied with the means to exercise his developing brain. Educational toys;
music lessons; work books. Now he was due to face the entrance exam for the local grammar school, Pam’s efforts had intensified.
It was vital, she thought, that her children had the best start in life, especially as there were so few other mixed-race
children in the school. In an ideal world it shouldn’t matter but she feared
that it did. She wanted Michael and Amelia to achieve the best … and mix with the best of company.

She found the work book and when she placed it in front of him she saw him roll his eyes. But before she could say anything,
the phone began to ring.

She’d hoped it was Wesley and her heart sank when she heard her mother’s voice. ‘I need to speak to Wesley.’

‘He’s at work. Murder enquiry. Don’t you read the papers?’

‘Never. Nothing but bad news, darling. Has he spoken to anyone at Neston about Simon yet?’

It took Pam a few seconds to realise what she was talking about. Then she remembered. Simon Frith was the teacher who’d been
accused of that most heinous of crimes, the sexual abuse of a child. The very nature of the allegations made Pam reluctant
to co-operate. There was no smoke without fire … was there? ‘He hasn’t mentioned it, but that’s not surprising because he’s
been so busy.’

‘They’ve taken Simon in for questioning again. Can you ask Wesley to call me as soon as possible?’

‘Even if he wasn’t tied up with this murder enquiry, he can’t interfere in someone else’s case, surely you can see that.’

‘But it’s destroying Simon and his family. He’s an innocent man. Get Wesley to call me as soon as he can.’

Pam sighed. She’d run out of things to say. With Wesley’s absence and Neil’s accident, it was all too much. And when she heard
Amelia calling through from the dining room to complain that Michael was teasing her, she put the phone down.

Rupert Raybourn had been relieved when Zac James decided to do a runner. Not only did it take the pressure off
him as far as the police were concerned, it meant that he didn’t have to put up with the obnoxious little shit in the congenial
surroundings of the Marina Hotel. Working with Zac had been like sharing a room with a chimpanzee from the zoo.

The Marina Hotel was comfortable and, while the TV company was paying, the arrangement suited him fine. But he knew he had
to return to West Fretham. There was a visit he had to make. Something he’d put off long enough.

At ten o’clock he slipped out of the hotel, walking casually past Reception and out into the car park. To his left the river
glinted, reflecting the lights from the restaurant. He could hear the lazy lapping of the oil-black water and he could smell
the salty tang of seaweed in the air. A little further downstream the car ferry was still chugging its way backwards and forwards,
brilliantly lit like a spacecraft landed on the river from some distant planet.

Rupert got into his BMW, started the engine and steered out of the car park. He drove past the picturesque whitewashed pub
on the corner, changing into second gear to negotiate the steep road out of town, and continued on the coast road until he
reached West Fretham.

He parked at the end of a cul-de-sac of small retirement bungalows not far from the medieval church and sat in the car for
a few minutes, gathering his thoughts, before walking to the white-painted bungalow at the end, the one with an aging but
immaculate little Toyota parked outside. There was a light on behind the frosted glass door but he waited for a few seconds,
knowing that the door wouldn’t be answered at that late hour without some reassurances. He took his mobile phone from the
inside pocket of his
leather coat and, after a brief conversation, he saw a dark shape in the hall, outlined against the light.

The door opened to reveal a tall elderly woman who was hugging a purple quilted dressing gown around her thin body.

But before he could say anything she stepped forward and put her face close to his. He could smell peppermint on her breath.
Toothpaste. ‘That Benley woman’s out of prison,’ she said in a low whisper. ‘She’s back at the cottage.’

‘I know.’

‘And she’s gone and killed someone else so maybe this time they’ll put her away for good.’

As the woman stood aside to let him in, he saw a look of bitter hatred on her face.

Journal of Thomas Whitcombe, Captain in the King’s army, September 15th 1643

I went in daylight clad in the garb of a humble farmer, the better to sneak unnoticed past the road blocks. Although I did
not sneak, I pulled my homespun cloak around me against the rain and with cheery ‘good morrows’ I walked unchallenged through
the streets
.

I am a well-set young man with an open face and I am accustomed to being trusted by all I meet. And, being familiar with the
local speech, I was able to unlock the doors of their suspicion and convince all that I was a farmer from Bovey Tracey come
to sell my wool to one of the merchants who reside in the town and that I planned to bring in my wares by stealth to defy
the besieging soldiers. I feigned amazement at the fortifications and told how I slipped past the King’s men by concealing
myself behind a hedgerow. I cheerfully cursed King Charles and his taxes and such was my confidence that no one I met harboured
one moment’s suspicion that I was a spy in their midst, although that was indeed my role
.

I went to Baynard’s Quay and stood for a while watching, the stench of newly landed fish in my nostrils. I have heard it said
that Alison’s father and mother are dead and that she no longer resides there. If she lives I must get word to her
.

Written by Alison Hadness, September 15th 1643

Elizabeth is a sullen girl of fifteen summers, thin with lank hair the colour of rope and marks upon her face from the smallpox
she suffered as a child. She is ever resentful of me. Her mother died in childbed some three years since and William asked
for my hand in marriage but a year later. I imagined she would welcome me into the household for any mother is better than
none. But I am close to her in age so she regards me as a rival. I know the truth of it now
.

The thought of William’s flesh joined with mine sickens me and I think often of Thomas and how, in the folly of my youth,
I bought the love philtre from the old woman in the village of Stoke Beeching. It may be that I should obtain another so that
William will quicken my heart and yet I fear the strongest magic will not avail against my indifference. I am an incorrigible
sinner but I dare not beg God’s forgiveness for I know my sin will persist until death
.

It may be that there is some herb that will put all right
.

‘Keeping you up, Wes?’ Gerry said as Wesley stifled a yawn.

Wesley smiled dutifully. Gerry could usually come up with something better than that, even at seven-thirty in the morning.

‘How’s Neil?’

‘Comfortable, according to the hospital.’

‘Good.’

‘I hear the incident room at West Fretham’s going to be ready later today.’

‘About time too,’ Gerry muttered before bellowing out an order for attention. The chatting and sorting through paperwork stopped
as everyone turned to face the notice board while Gerry went over the latest developments, assigning jobs and making observations.

The statements they’d taken from the TV crew and the footage they’d shot had to be gone through to make sure nothing had been
missed. Everyone in West Fretham had been interviewed but nobody had admitted to seeing anything out of the ordinary. It appeared
that Boo Flecker’s killer had vanished into the landscape, leaving no trace behind. And the easiest escape route from that
field, Gerry observed, was towards Devil’s Tree Cottage. Lilith Benley was high on their suspect list.

They needed to discover everything they could about the victim and find out exactly what she’d been doing while she was in
Devon. It was likely she’d been trying to dig up dirt on Zac James or Rupert Raybourn. But Dan Sericold had also said she
might have been onto something new. Every possibility had to be checked out.

After Zac had been released the night before, with strict orders not to leave the area, they’d tried to contact Rupert Raybourn
at the Marina Hotel but he hadn’t been there. The man might have gone for a walk or a quiet drink at one of Tradmouth’s many
pubs but Wesley had felt uneasy about his absence. However, when one of the DCs had called at the hotel first thing that morning,
she’d been told that Raybourn had returned just before midnight.

Gerry had a theory that Boo had set out to investigate Raybourn or James but had diverted her attention to Lilith Benley when
she’d learned of her release. The case had been notorious and Lilith’s new life would have made a
good story. Wesley couldn’t argue with his reasoning. But he still had some niggling doubts.

There was still no sign of Boo’s phone. Gerry had asked someone to contact service providers so her calls could be traced
but it was taking time. They were still waiting for news.

‘Do we know where Boo Flecker was staying yet?’ Wesley asked once the briefing was over.

‘The team’s drawn a blank at all the local hotels and B and Bs. But I’m not giving up hope.’ Gerry sounded remarkably cheerful,
considering the investigation hadn’t progressed very far. ‘What did you make of the lad who found the murder weapon? Alex?
He’s got a chip on his shoulder if you ask me.’

‘He doesn’t like his stepfather.’

‘Probably an age thing,’ said Gerry.

Alex’s attitude might have been a case of teenage angst or it might have been something deeper. But Wesley couldn’t see Alex
Gulliver stabbing a woman in cold blood. If he was going to kill anyone his stepfather would surely have been a more likely
candidate.

‘Alex said he thought Shane Gulliver recognised the victim.’

‘Might want to get him into hot water,’ said Gerry. ‘Gulliver won’t be back till tonight. If he doesn’t call us we’ll pay
him a visit.’

The phone in Gerry’s office began to ring and he hurried away just as a mousy-haired young woman from Forensic arrived at
Wesley’s desk. He recognised her as somebody who’d brought them good news in previous cases. He hoped she wouldn’t disappoint
now.

She was holding a file in her left hand which she opened and studied with a satisfied smile on her face.

‘That knife you sent us has been examined and the blood definitely matches the victim’s. And we found something interesting.
There were two small sticky labels stuck to the blade, the sort you’d usually remove before use. They were badly stained but
we managed to read what was underneath. One refers to the manufacturer in the Far East and the other appears to be the name
of the company that distributes the things in this country. It’s a local firm, head office registered in Tradmouth. Just thought
you’d like to know.’

She took a sheet of paper from the file she was holding and placed it on the desk in front of him.

‘Thanks.’ He gave her a smile of humble gratitude. It was always wise to keep well in with Forensic. In these days of budget
cuts and delays, favours were becoming more precious than ever.

Wesley needed to get this new information checked out. But everybody seemed to be engrossed in their own tasks so he picked
up the phone. Delegation’s all very well but sometimes it’s quicker to do things yourself.

As soon as he’d finished his brief conversation Rachel entered the CID office, her arms filled with old box files. She was
making for her desk but when Wesley called her name, she stopped.

‘I’ve got an address for the company that supplied the murder weapon,’ he said.

‘And you want me to pay them a visit and get a list of their customers?’

She’d always been able to read his mind.

‘I’ll come with you. I’d like to see the setup for myself and talk to the person in charge.’

‘If you think it’s necessary.’ Rachel sounded as if she
suspected Wesley of wasting precious resources. She let the files drop on his desk and a musty smell wafted towards him. ‘These
are the files on the Benley murders. I’m going through them to see if any familiar names came up back then.’

‘Surely that’s already been done.’

‘The main players, yes. I’m looking at the peripheral people who were around at the time but didn’t give evidence at the trial.
The boss wants to see if there’s any link between the girls’ murders and this latest one.’

Before Wesley could say anything, he heard Gerry’s voice. ‘It’s time we had another word with Rupert Raybourn. Find out if
he has any nasty little secrets he’d kill to keep hidden.’

Wesley gave Rachel an apologetic look and said he’d see her later. He was impatient to see what the importer of the murder
weapon had to say for him or herself but at that moment Rupert Raybourn took priority. Dan Sericold had told them that Boo
Flecker was looking for dirt on one of the
Celebrity Farm
contestants. And if it wasn’t Zac James, that only left one possibility.

They walked the short distance to the Marina Hotel and found Raybourn in the lounge. He was dressed casually today in chinos
and a polo shirt with a pastel blue cashmere sweater draped around his neck. He looked calm and untroubled but it could have
been an act. Like his performances in days gone by.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard when they can resume the filming?’ he asked as soon as they sat down. ‘I did wonder whether
it would be in bad taste in view of what happened but …’

‘The show must go on, eh,’ said Gerry. ‘The producer’s
been moaning to our Chief Super that this business is costing the TV company a fortune. You’re happy to carry on?’

‘Money’s money, Chief Inspector. How can I help you?’

‘The victim, Boo Flecker, was a freelance journalist. We think she might have been investigating you.’

The mask of co-operative concern slipped for a split second. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘She didn’t approach you?’ asked Wesley.

‘No.’

‘We only have your word for that, sir.’

‘How do you prove a negative? If she wanted an interview surely she would have contacted me?’

‘Maybe she did. Maybe she arranged to meet you in the top field and you killed her there to keep whatever she’d turned up
about you quiet.’

Wesley saw Raybourn’s eyes widen in panic. ‘That’s not what happened. I found her, that’s all. I didn’t kill her.’

‘She told a colleague that she was investigating one of the finalists on
Celebrity Farm
. We’ve spoken to Zac James and he denies there’s any dirt to find on him that isn’t already public knowledge. That leaves
you.’

Raybourn looked affronted, the picture of injured innocence. ‘She’ll have been on a fishing expedition … trying to dig up
non-existent muck. I know what these people are like.’

‘You mean they’ve had dirt on you before?’

‘You’re twisting my words.’ He sounded irritated now, as though Wesley was starting to break down his defences. ‘She couldn’t
have found any dirt because there is none to find. And if she’d been stupid enough to publish false allegations, I would have
sued her and whatever paper was stupid enough to print her poison for libel. Even if she did intend to write some scurrilous
article about me, I had no
reason to kill her. On the contrary, I could have made a fortune out of her.’ His lips twitched upwards in a nervous smile.
‘My attitude has always been “publish and be damned” – and she would have been.’

‘So there’s nothing in your private life you’d want to keep under wraps?’ Wesley asked.

‘My life’s an open book,’ he said with brittle confidence. ‘Now if that’s all …’

He stood up and extended his hand. ‘Always happy to co-operate with the police. Sorry I can’t be more help.’

‘Believe him?’ Gerry asked as they left the hotel.

‘No. But we haven’t any reason to arrest him.’

‘Except for crimes against humour,’ Gerry said with a grin.

The drizzle turned to rain as they walked back to the police station. In the middle of the raindrop-mottled river a Royal
Navy frigate lay at anchor, its grey hull matching the colour of the water.

Mist lay over the hills behind the town, almost hiding the rocky outcrop guarding the river mouth, the site of Neil’s excavation.
The thought of Neil brought the worry back like a physical blow.

‘You going to see Neil later?’ Gerry asked, as though he had read his thoughts.

‘If I have a chance.’

‘Makes you realise how fragile life is, doesn’t it?’

Wesley didn’t answer. He couldn’t have put it better himself. Neil’s accident had given him a new feeling of vague dread,
like a mild stomach ache that takes you by surprise every so often. Perhaps it was all part of growing older, the gradual
but relentless shedding of your youthful invulnerability.

His phone began to ring. It was one of the detective constables who’d been given the job of finding out where Boo Flecker
ate her final meal. The landlord of the Ploughman’s Rest in West Fretham had reported an abandoned car in his car park. It
turned out to be a hire car and, on further investigation, the DC found it had been hired by Boo Flecker in Exeter on the
Thursday before her death. He surmised that she must have left it at the pub and walked the half mile or so to Jessop’s Farm.
Best way, he reckoned, if she’d wanted to stay inconspicuous.

He’d also discovered that Boo had eaten at the pub that had recently rebranded itself as a gastro pub for the discerning diner.
The manager remembered Boo and her bright red coat because she’d sent her steak back twice, complaining that it wasn’t done
exactly to her liking. He remembered her companion too.

When Wesley relayed the information Gerry’s eyes lit up. ‘That place used to be a dive but I’ve heard it serves a decent pint
these days.’

‘Don’t forget I want to visit the firm that supplied the murder weapon.’

‘You and Rach can do that later.’

They picked up the car at the police station and drove straight to the Ploughman’s Rest. The rain was stopping as Wesley steered
into the car park, as though it had made a great effort but no longer had the energy to carry on. The newly painted pub in
the centre of the village looked inviting and picture-postcard pretty with its hanging baskets filled with flowers and its
leaded windows lit by a golden, cosy glow, and soon Gerry was marching towards the entrance like a thirsty man making for
a mirage in the desert. Wesley followed, knowing that, as he was on duty
and driving, nothing more interesting than orange juice awaited him inside.