The Shadow Collector (15 page)

It had been the black detective who’d come before with DCI Heffernan. An attractive man with kind eyes, polite and well spoken,
unlike most of the policemen she’d encountered eighteen years ago. Most of them had been stupid and ignorant, prejudiced in
the true meaning of the word. Gerry Heffernan had seemed different – but he hadn’t been in charge back then so he’d had to
do as he was told.

The black detective had called with a young woman; an efficient-looking blonde in a dark trouser suit who’d reminded her of
one of the Assistant Governors at the prison where she’d spent so many wasted years. She’d reminded her a little of someone
else too – of one of the girls who’d brought about her downfall. She’d been blonde too, with the sharp, merciless features
of a cat. If the man had been alone she might have spoken to him but the woman wouldn’t have understood the emotions that
had led her to West Fretham. And she wouldn’t have been able to comprehend the all-consuming urge to protect her weak, half-crazy
mother either.

But that was in the past. Now she had her freedom. But when you’ve become used to the protection and routine of an institution,
freedom is a hard beast to handle.

To take the edge off her hunger, she’d made herself beans on toast. It was her last tin of beans and the bread
had been stale but it hadn’t tasted too bad. Sooner or later she’d have to hire a taxi and venture into Tradmouth or Dukesbridge
to stock up on supplies. But she knew she’d run the risk of being recognised. Her notoriety would mean stares of fear and
disgust. Sins must be paid for.

She made herself a cup of tea and switched on the radio, Radio 4 just to add some life to the place, and gazed at the wood
fire blazing behind the stove’s grubby glass, wondering what other steps she’d have to take to ensure she’d no longer be dogged
by the shadows she’d collected in her past. But she feared that, whatever she did, they’d always be with her.

She sat for a while with her hands cupped around the hot mug, comforting herself with the warmth. There was a problem she
had to deal with. When the athames had arrived in a parcel on Tuesday morning she’d shoved them in the back of her wardrobe,
out of sight. Then, after the murder, she knew she’d have to find a safer hiding place. There was a loose brick in the old
pantry where she used to keep any spare money and treasures. She’d looked there as soon as she returned from prison and found
her mother’s engagement ring still there in the gap, undisturbed even after all the years the house had been empty. This secret
place was impossible to detect unless you knew it was there, better than any safe, and even the painstaking police search
of the cottage eighteen years ago hadn’t found it. There had just been room for the knives in there but she needed to dispose
of them permanently. She wanted them out of her house but she knew it would be wise to wait until the fuss had died down.

And there was something else she needed to do – a piece
of the past that had to be destroyed. She stood up and walked over to the chest of drawers. When she opened the bottom drawer
she saw that the little bear was still there, threadbare and stained with grubby stuffing protruding from the belly where
she’d thrust in the knife that night. She took it from its resting place, opened the stove door, threw it onto the flames
and watched it burn. As the fire consumed it she experienced a feeling of release. She’d done it, just as she’d promised herself
she would during her time in prison. That particular part of her life was over for ever.

She curled up in the old worn armchair and it seemed to mould to her shape, even after so many years of absence. The voice
of an actor soothed from the radio speaker, a restful book at bedtime, and for the first time in over eighteen years she felt
herself relaxing.

She looked at the empty rocking chair in the corner, imagining the old woman rocking to and fro, her face covered with the
white handkerchief that made her look like a giant, faceless doll. Sometimes she still dreamed of that figure without a face
… that and those dead girls.

The clock on the wall was still ticking. It had been her mother’s – a wedding present. One of the first things she’d done
on her return was to wind it up and listen to its comforting tick tock in the cold silence. It kept good time, but then it
was an antique and they knew how to make things properly back then … that’s what Mother had always said before she lost her
mind.

Suddenly she heard hammering, a relentless thumping on the door. Something malevolent was outside trying to invade her new-found
peace. Her body tensed as the noise stopped and then she heard something clatter to the floor in
the back hall. She pressed her body into the chair, breath held, heart pounding.

Then the back door creaked open and she heard soft footsteps walking slowly towards the parlour door. Getting nearer.

Journal of Thomas Whitcombe, Captain in the King’s army, September 17th 1643

Prince Maurice is restless. He pores over maps and charts all day, planning his attack while the men outside consume the ale
we have procured. Some deserted yesterday, weary of the rain and mud. Was ever weather so unfavourable to our cause
.

Our good prince supposes that siege is the only way to overcome the town for no man or woman can withstand starvation. One
of our captains says the townsfolk are using witchcraft against us, conjuring this infernal rain and wind in their defence
.

I will venture once more into Tradmouth tomorrow but Prince Maurice fears my constant presence will arouse many suspicions.
Yet he knows not the true purpose of my endeavours
.

Written by Alison Hadness, September 17th 1643

Sometimes Elizabeth watches me with the shadow of hatred burning in her pale eyes as if she can see into my very soul. She
swears the
dreadful manikin was none of her work. I do not believe her but I cannot tell her father of her lies and her evil actions
for he will hear no word against his own blood. How shall this be remedied?

Dorcas says Elizabeth wishes me ill and she fears her as I do. If William will not come to my aid it may be that I should
take measures to resolve my dilemma
.

How I curse the King for taking Thomas from me but I pray for his safety. It may be that I shall never see him again in this
life
.

The nightmare had awoken Wesley at one-thirty that morning, leaving him shaking and sweating with terror. In his dream the
wax doll in the little coffin had come to life. It had climbed in through his bedroom window and floated towards the bed,
bristling with quivering blood-rusted pins, smiling its rictus smile. It had stabbed at Pam’s throat with a shiny knife and
he had struggled to defend her before it turned its deadly attentions on him. He’d known he was losing the fight for life
as the thing leered above him and when he’d lifted his arms in self-defence, the cold wax hands had grabbed his wrists, leaving
him helpless and paralysed by fear. He’d woken Pam when he’d lashed out in an attempt to fight the thing off. But, unlike
him, she’d managed to get back to sleep again.

When morning came and the daylight trickled in through the curtains he showered, dressed quickly and made himself an early
breakfast, taking Pam a cup of tea which she received with bleary-eyed gratitude.

As he sat at the kitchen table eating a slice of toast he looked out on the garden. Behind the foliage, turning to autumn
yellows and browns, he could see the small wooden shed and he couldn’t help picturing the thing inside it. He was tempted
to retrieve the doll that had
haunted his sleep and take it up to Exeter himself just to get it off the premises. But with things as they were, there wouldn’t
be time.

He was due at the incident room early so he left Pam half awake to deal with the kids and get ready for work. Once they had
Boo Flecker’s killer in custody he promised himself he’d make it up to her somehow.

He drove out to West Fretham with the radio on, catching up with the morning’s news, relieved that there was no mention of
Boo Flecker’s murder. When he arrived at the incident room it was already buzzing as the night shift brought the incoming
officers up to date with new developments before hurrying home to get some rest. Gerry was at his desk, looking as tired as
Wesley felt.

‘Anything new?’ Wesley asked as he sat down opposite the DCI.

Gerry’s face brightened. ‘Rupert Raybourn’s spent the night in the cells at Tradmouth. I said we’d be over as soon as I’d
finished the morning briefing. And Nick Tarnaby’s been going through the CCTV footage from the Ploughman’s Rest half the night
and he’s found us a registration number for Boo Flecker’s mystery companion. Boo was talking to a man in the car park who
matched the description the manager had given. He got into a ten-year-old Ford Mondeo and drove off while she walked off down
the main road in the direction of Jessop’s Farm and never came back. Her hire car’s been examined, by the way, but they didn’t
find anything useful. Only a sweet wrapper and a ticket for the car park in Neston. Still no news on where she was staying.’

‘Any chance the Mondeo driver was our murderer? If he followed her …’

Gerry shook his head. ‘Can’t see it myself, Wes. But I could be wrong, of course. It has been known.’ He gave a weary smile.
‘The car’s registered to a Laurence Roley. He’s a retired teacher. Taught English at Dukesbridge Comprehensive for twenty-six
years before he packed it in.’ He paused, as though he was saving the best till last. ‘He was interviewed as a matter of routine
eighteen years ago when the girls went missing. He was their form teacher.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘Wonder what Boo wanted with him.’

‘We’ll have to ask him. I sent someone round to Lilith Benley’s first thing but there was still no answer.’

‘She might have gone away.’

‘More likely she’s avoiding us. But we’ll keep trying. I sent someone to have another word with that knife woman as well –
Harriet Mumford … the sculptor.’

‘And?’

‘Turns out she was working in her studio in West Fretham on the afternoon of the murder but she claims she didn’t see or hear
anything suspicious.’

‘But she was definitely there in the village?’

Gerry sighed. ‘So were a few hundred other people.’

‘But nobody who had ready access to the murder weapon,’ said Wesley.

‘What would this Harriet woman have against Boo Flecker?’

‘We won’t know until we’ve checked out her background. I’ll get someone onto it.’ He paused. Something else was on his mind
and it was time he shared it with Gerry. ‘I had some news of my own last night. Neil’s brake pipes were cut.’

Gerry stared at him for a few moments. ‘You’re joking.’

‘I spoke to one of the mechanics at Neston police garage. He’s sure.’

‘I know Neil can be a pain in the backside sometimes but why would anyone want to do something like that?’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’ He wondered whether to mention the strange doll but decided against it. Last night in the
darkness it had seemed relevant … now it seemed fanciful and ridiculous.

‘Has Neil any idea who might be responsible?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to ask him yet. He’s still in hospital and I didn’t want to upset him.’

‘He’ll have to know sooner or later.’

‘I believe the Collision Investigation Unit at Neston’s started to make enquiries. Maybe it’s best to leave it to them.’

‘Keep me posted, eh.’ Gerry looked at his watch. ‘We’ll pay this Laurence Roley a visit – see what he has to say for himself.
But first we’d better speak to Raybourn. A night in the cells should have softened him up nicely.’

‘He was here visiting his aunt when those two girls were killed. Was there anything to connect him with the crime at the time?’

‘No, but I agree, Wes. We need to ask him about it.’

‘Of course he might have chosen to take part in
Celebrity Farm
because he had links with the area.’

‘It’s possible.’ Gerry hesitated. ‘And we mustn’t forget we’re seeing Dan Sericold later. Hopefully he might be able to shed
some light on exactly what Boo was up to.’

Wesley picked up his car keys. It was just their luck that, now the incident room had moved to West Fretham, their first port
of call was back at Tradmouth police station. As they drove down the steep road into the town, he wondered
whether to ask for Gerry’s thoughts on the Simon Frith case. Should he obey his first instinct and learn the facts before
judging for himself whether Della had been right to leap to the man’s defence? Or should he steer clear of the whole thing?

‘Gerry, there’s something I’d like your opinion on.’ That was it. He’d said it and it was too late to change his mind now.
He explained his dilemma, eyes fixed on the road ahead and the river at the foot of the hill, sparkling grey and dotted with
boats at anchor. It had begun to drizzle again and he flicked his wipers to clear the windscreen.

When he’d finished Gerry said nothing for a few moments. He spoke as Wesley was steering right to drive along the esplanade.

‘I know Geoff Gaulter,’ said Gerry. ‘He’s a good bloke and I’m sure he won’t mind giving you the bare facts. You won’t be
able to interfere, mind.’

‘I know.’

‘My Rosie told me about a teacher she works with who was accused of hitting a kid. It turned out it was all lies so I know
things like that happen, particularly with stroppy adolescents who know their rights … and their powers.’

Maybe if Gerry’s daughter, Rosie, hadn’t told him a similar tale, he might not have been so sympathetic. But as it was, Wesley
now felt reassured that contacting Geoff Gaulter would do no harm. But he’d do it later, when he had a free moment.

When they arrived at the station Rupert Raybourn was awaiting them in Interview Room Three. The room had just been redecorated
so it was the smartest of the three interview rooms and still smelled of fresh paint. Perhaps it had been allocated to Raybourn
because of his celebrity
status. Or perhaps Wesley was reading too much into it.

Gerry sat down opposite the comedian and his brief, who had just arrived from the capital and looked remarkably unconcerned,
as though it was some routine meeting to be got through as quickly as possible.

‘Well, Mr Raybourn, we meet again. I believe you’ve been indulging in fisticuffs with the Press. Never a good idea in my opinion.’

Raybourn gave Gerry a withering look. ‘I never asked for your opinion, Chief Inspector. I admit I lost my temper and punched
the man because he was in my face taking photographs and asking intrusive questions. OK?’

‘I hear he wants to bring charges.’

‘I was provoked.’

Wesley watched as Gerry put his face close to Raybourn’s. ‘Yesterday you told us you had nothing to hide. What exactly did
this photographer say to make you lose that temper of yours, Mr Raybourn?’

When the man didn’t reply, Gerry spoke again. ‘We’ll ask him so you might as well tell us. Get it off your chest.’

Raybourn took a deep breath. ‘OK. I’ll be straight with you. He said he’d heard a young man had come forward. As far as I
know I’ve never met him but …’ There was another long silence. ‘Allegedly I took him to a party, which is a lie. However,
I can’t prove it because I was at home alone at the time he’s claiming it happened. It turns out he’s a rent boy and he wants
to sell the story of how we spent the night together.’

‘Is that all?’

Raybourn glanced awkwardly at Wesley. ‘This man’s also been claiming that I made a number of racist remarks about one of the
other people at this party. Apart from the
fact that I wasn’t even there, I’m not a racist and these days any allegation like that can ruin a man’s reputation and career
in a second.’

‘And you’ve been around far too long to get caught out like that,’ said Wesley sweetly.

‘I told you. It’s all lies.’

‘Has this man got witnesses?’ Gerry asked.

‘He can’t have. I wasn’t even at this damned party. As far as I know I’ve never even met him.’

The way he said it told Wesley he was probably lying.

‘But you have used rent boys?’

Raybourn bit his lip. ‘Once or twice. But I’ve always been discreet. I’ve had to be. I make my living as a family entertainer.
No doubt this man’s made the whole thing up and he’s selling this fictional story to the highest bidder.’

‘No doubt,’ said Gerry. ‘Any idea why someone would want to discredit you?’

‘All successful people make enemies over the years.’

‘And this young man’s one of them?’

‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t remember him. I’ve asked my agent to make enquiries about his background. This is a nightmare.’
Wesley could hear a pleading note in his voice and for the first time he found himself unexpectedly feeling a twinge of pity
for the man.

Gerry spoke next. ‘I believe your real name’s Eric Bourne.’ His eyes were focused on Raybourn’s face, awaiting a reaction.
But he was disappointed when the man seemed to relax.

‘A good stage name’s important and there’s nothing like a bit of alliteration. Let’s face it, Chief Inspector, a lot of performers
aren’t blessed with a real name that rolls off the tongue.’

‘It’s just that an Eric Bourne was interviewed when two girls were murdered in West Fretham eighteen years ago.’ Gerry was
watching the man as a cat watches a mouse. ‘He was visiting an aunt in the village at the time they disappeared. That you,
was it?’

‘I was down here doing a gig in Morbay and I visited my aunt when I had a free evening. Me and Aunty Vera have always been
close.’ He was doing his best to sound casual, as if it was of no consequence.

‘You didn’t stay with her?’ Wesley asked.

‘No. I stayed at the Riviera Towers. I was doing well back then. On the TV most weeks.’

‘Yours must be a funny old life,’ said Gerry. ‘Up and down. You hit the top and then you’re on the downward slope.’

‘It’s unpredictable. People go through bad patches and make comebacks all the time. Maybe that’s why we carry on … because
you never know what’s round the corner. I hoped
Celebrity Farm
would give my comeback a kick start. It’s a matter of public perception, you see. I was hoping that those other prats would
make me look good. I worked bloody hard on that farm, shovelled all the shit while the others posed and Zac was out of it
half the time and high the other half. I took the part of the peacemaker, the one they all liked and trusted. That’s why I
made the final two. The last thing I need is for these allegations to ruin it all.’

‘Sorry if this is getting in the way of your brilliant career,’ said Gerry. Wesley heard the hint of sarcasm in his voice
but it seemed Raybourn didn’t.

He waved his hand in modest dismissal. ‘The show’s still going ahead. The producer assures me it’s just a delay.’