The Shadow Collector (24 page)

She looked him in the eye. ‘That’s right, Inspector. I’m a Wiccan. It’s no secret.’

‘Are Shane and Gwen Gulliver members too?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t really think it’s their scene. I’ll just go and see where Evan’s got to.’

She began to make for the door with an eagerness that told Wesley she was finding his questions uncomfortable.

‘Just one more thing, Mrs Mumford,’ Wesley said to her disappearing back. She turned round. ‘How many people have access to
your supply of athames?’

Harriet thought for a few seconds before she answered. ‘There’s myself and Evan, of course. We’ve never really felt the need
for security so anyone who visits the house could help themselves I suppose.’

‘Any of the guests at your party?’

She looked doubtful. ‘In theory, I suppose. But I can’t honestly imagine any of our friends …’

‘Can you remember anyone asking questions about the knives?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Do you keep a record of how many you have in stock?’

‘Of course we do on the computer but we only do an actual stocktake about once a year.’

‘Could you do one now, love?’ said Gerry. ‘Match the ones you have in stock with your records so we can check whether any
are missing; just the design Lilith Benley ordered.’

She hesitated for a second. ‘No problem.’

They had been alone in the drawing room for a few minutes when Evan Mumford joined them, all innocent concern. His wife, he
said, was reconciling the stock with their records and he was anxious to help in any way he could.

Evan’s answers matched Harriet’s exactly, almost as if they’d agreed on their tactics beforehand. But Wesley told himself
that his years in the police had probably given him a suspicious mind.

It was twenty minutes before Harriet burst into the room, a worried frown clouding her face. ‘One of the cartons in the storeroom
has been opened and six athames are missing.’

‘We’ll need the names and addresses of everyone who’s visited this house in the past few weeks,’ said Gerry.

Harriet opened the drawer, took out a note pad and began the list, saying that she wasn’t sure of everyone’s address. A subdued
Evan supplied more details with barely concealed reluctance and when Harriet had finished her list, Wesley took it from her
and examined it. Apart from the people he already knew about, the Gullivers and the builders, Selina Chester’s name was also
there. When he asked Evan about her he said she was a good customer, which made sense. But he’d found another link, however
tenuous, between the Mumfords and Lilith Benley so he couldn’t help experiencing a small thrill of discovery.

Then he spotted another familiar name on the list. Vera Bourne, Rupert Raybourn’s aunt. Harriet described her as her cleaning
lady who came in two days a week and spent most of that time complaining about the building work. She lived near Harriet’s
studio in West Fretham and she
used to clean for a lot of people in what she called ‘the old days’. Harriet had persuaded her to come out of retirement and
paid well for her services because cleaners are hard to find.

Gerry pocketed the list. It was time to go, to take it back to the incident room and give it to some hapless DC to check out.

‘How’s the cellar coming along?’ Wesley asked as Harriet showed them out.

‘They’ve finished digging it out.’ She seemed glad of the change of subject. ‘And Dave, the archaeologist has had a look at
it. He’s taken some things away with him to be examined. He said those …’ She hesitated. ‘Those things hidden behind the panelling
will probably end up in a museum. I told him I just wanted them out of the house.’

‘Before his accident Neil was intending to find out more about a woman who lived here who was hanged for witchcraft. Her name
was Alison Hadness.’

‘All I’ve managed to find in the local library was an account of her trial. A lot of her neighbours gave evidence against
her.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Actually there is something down in the cellar if you’re interested.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ll show you.’

He allowed her to lead him into the disused wing, Gerry trailing behind. In the room where the panelling had been removed
they found the builder, Lee, sitting on a wooden folding chair, drinking tea from a large mug. He watched as they followed
Harriet to the open trapdoor leading down to the cellar, and Wesley noticed that his eyes were focused on Harriet’s legs.

‘Is it safe to go down there now?’ she said to Lee.

As soon as Wesley saw him nod the two policemen negotiated the stone staircase leading down into the earth. The chamber was
clear of soil and debris now and Wesley could see that it was around seven feet high and at least as large as the room above.
Whatever it had been used for in times gone by it was now an empty space with stone walls and a dirty flagstone floor. But
when Wesley studied the floor more carefully he could make out some marks, as though at one time somebody had drawn on the
grey stones. He could just make out the faded outline of a pentagram, a five-pointed star enclosed in a circle, and he knew
that its presence there probably meant the accusations against Alison Hadness back in the seventeenth century had contained
the seeds of truth: she had indeed dabbled in witchcraft. No wonder they’d hanged her.

He climbed the steps back to the twenty-first century followed by Gerry, panting behind.

‘It’s a pentagram,’ said Harriet who was waiting for them at the top. ‘It’s an ancient and powerful symbol of magic. We use
it in our Wiccan rites too.’

He saw Gerry glance at his watch. He was anxious to go.

They thanked Harriet for her co-operation and Wesley told her that somebody would be along to take a statement and a proper
list of everyone who might have had access to the missing knives.

‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ Gerry said as he started towards the front door. Harriet made no attempt to play the perfect hostess
and see them off the premises. Instead she stayed in the kitchen with Lee.

When he reached the threshold of the kitchen Wesley
glanced back. Harriet was standing close to Lee. His hand was placed firmly on her backside and she didn’t seem to be objecting.
But as soon as she saw that Wesley was watching the colour drained from her face and she stepped away quickly.

He followed Gerry along the hall to the front door. At least this snippet of gossip would take the DCI’s mind off murder on
their journey back to the incident room.

Shane Gulliver paused on the landing and gazed down into the hall. Even though it was Saturday he’d been working because he
had a deadline. And besides, it kept him away from Alex. Playing happy families was all very well in small doses but a sulky
adolescent Goth obsessed with metal detecting was hardly his idea of stimulating company. Gwen doted on the boy, spoiled him.
But Shane preferred to keep his distance. He had wanted Gwen … not her baggage from the past, however fondly he might speak
of the lad in media interviews.

He saw Gwen emerge from the drawing room, carrying a vase of half-dead flowers carefully in both hands. When he began to walk
down the stairs she looked up.

‘Alex in?’ he asked.

‘He’s gone into Dukesbridge to meet some friends.’ She watched him anxiously. She’d known him long enough to know something
was wrong. ‘What’s up?’

Shane didn’t answer. Instead he sunk down onto a thickly carpeted stair, sitting there like a small child refusing to go to
bed.

Gwen put the vase down on the hall table, giving him her full attention. There was no point in lying now. Besides, he’d feel
better if he shared it with somebody.

‘I spoke to my agent yesterday – she’s just got back from holiday.’

‘And?’

He felt tears pricking his eyes, something he hadn’t experienced since boyhood. ‘It’s all starting to unravel, Gwen. It’s
all going wrong.’

Written by Alison Hadness, September 23rd 1643

William rose from his bed this day and drank much to relieve his great thirst. I gave him more of my infusion saying it was
good for the headaches that plague him
.

He feels most unwell and complains that he cannot see clearly. Dorcas is sick with headaches and issues forth vomit. So it
was that I went into the town alone and my heart pounded so heavily I feared it would break from my breast when I saw Thomas
in the market drinking ale with some merchants. He wore the homespun cloak of a farmer and yet when last I saw him he was
going for a soldier of the King. I was sore tempted to greet him but my fear prevented it
.

When I knew him he was a wild young man, a younger son with nought to commend him to my father. And yet I had loved him. I
turned my head and saw he had left his companions and was waiting some way off in the street. I approached, my heart pounding
in my breast, and when we were close enough to touch he said nothing but took my hand then, looking about him, he led me into
an alley that ran between
two tall houses. I allowed myself to be led, praying that no neighbour would see. For my mind was filled with sin
.

He told me he was now a farmer, having bought land in Bovey Tracey. But I knew this to be a lie as the jewelled dagger he
wore beneath his cloak was no farmer’s weapon
.

In my folly, I agreed to meet him at a barn which lies on my husband’s land, my desire for him conquering all right thoughts
.

When I arrived home Dorcas was worse and complains that her toes and fingers are cold. Maybe the magic in Elizabeth’s doll
has turned against an innocent victim
.

Laurence Roley had recovered from his shock by the time his statement was taken.

It was a statement that raised more questions than answers. Zac James had called his old teacher out of the blue, saying he
wanted to meet. Roley had suggested the Ploughman’s Rest because it was a place where you could hold a decent conversation
without your words being drowned out by piped music and intrusive fruit machines.

When he’d arrived at the pub he was greeting by the sight of a woman staggering from the entrance to the public footpath,
clearly in shock with outstretched, blood-stained hands. She’d walked a few yards then she’d collapsed, sobbing to the ground
and a man had run over to help her. Roley had asked the couple what was wrong but the woman had been too upset to answer so
he’d made for the footpath and seen the body lying there, just out of sight of the car park and the road. It had taken him
a few moments to realise that it was Zac – or John as he kept calling him – and he’d used his mobile phone to summon an ambulance.

Even though Roley seemed genuinely distressed he still
had the presence of mind to make a coherent statement. When Zac had called him he’d said he wanted to talk about something
he thought he’d seen. He needed his advice. Roley couldn’t be absolutely sure because the call had been a little vague. In
fact he thought his former pupil might have been high on drugs. He’d read about his problems in the newspapers. Such a shame.
The lad had had so much promise.

If Zac had been clearer about the purpose of the meeting, it would have made the investigation into his death a lot easier.
It was frustrating. But, in Wesley’s experience, life often was.

At seven Gerry announced they’d have to make an early start in the morning because the press had already got hold of the story
and soon all hell would break loose. Laurence Roley had been willing to identify the body and the dead man’s parents and sister
had been contacted. They were coming down to Devon, the county that had been their home until Zac hit the big time and moved
the whole family to the South East.

There was a visit Wesley wanted to make before he went home that evening. Vera Bourne’s name had come up already and the fact
that she cleaned for Harriet Mumford and had access to the athames was playing on his mind.

Gerry volunteered to go with him, saying that he hoped Vera made a decent cup of tea. Her house turned out to be just round
the corner from Harriet’s studio, which was now locked up with a closed sign on the door. Gerry stopped and stared into the
window of the converted shop. There were clay models in various stages of production; hares, boxing and solitary; cats and
dogs of various breeds. A whole menagerie in clay as well as figures of children and
dancers. Harriet had stuck with the popular rather than anything too avant-garde.

Vera Bourne answered her door virtually as soon as they rang the bell, as if she’d been expecting them.

‘We haven’t met before,’ said Gerry after introductions had been made.

‘I’ve had a couple of detectives round already. I told them everything I know.’ Her words sounded defensive, as though she
was guarding some precious secret.

‘You’re Rupert Raybourn’s aunt.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. At the mention of her nephew, her manner changed and they listened for a while as she sang his praises,
bristling with pride. He always remembered to visit her whenever he was in the area. Such a good boy. And so talented.

Wesley watched Gerry smile indulgently and, once the eulogy was over, they were offered tea, almost as if they’d just passed
some test.

However, when they asked her about Lilith Benley she became quite agitated, expressing the hope that she was dead after what
she’d done to ‘those poor lambs’, not to mention the people she’d killed more recently. Yes, she’d heard about the pop singer.
And if she spotted Lilith Benley she assured them she’d dial 999 right away.

‘You knew Lilith and her mother before the murders?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘What about the girls they killed?’

‘I used to see them around but I didn’t know them well. I knew Gabrielle’s mother to say hello to but …’

‘What about Joanne Trelisip?’

‘That poor mother of hers. Never got over her husband running off.’

‘Have you seen her recently?’

Vera shook her head.

‘I understand you clean for Harriet Mumford,’ Wesley said after taking a sip of tea.

‘Yes. Why?’ The question was guarded as though she suspected it was some sort of trap.

‘Evan Mumford imports knives – for ceremonies.’ Wesley caught Gerry’s eye.

‘I don’t know anything about that. I just clean.’

‘So you’ve no idea who might have taken six knives from a box in their storeroom?’

‘Well it wasn’t me,’ she said, affronted.

‘We never said it was, love,’ said Gerry. ‘We just wondered whether you’d seen anything, that’s all.’

‘No. But those Mumfords have got some very odd friends. Harriet’s nice enough. She’s got that little studio round the corner.
Used to be a butcher’s in the old days.’

‘What about Evan?’

She leaned forward. ‘He’s not a nice man.’

‘What do you mean?’

She ignored the question.

‘They’re friendly with that writer who lives at the Rectory, you know. I’ve not seen much of him, mind. And I don’t think
I’ve ever set eyes on his wife. But I’ll tell you one thing for free.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You know that woman who was
murdered, the reporter?’

‘What about her?’

‘I was driving through the village and I saw that writer talking to a woman – could have been the one that got killed. I drove
past him and I’ve never seen anyone look so cross.’

‘You think he was talking to Boo Flecker?’

‘She was wearing a bright red coat but I couldn’t see her face.’

‘When was this?’

‘It was Monday … the day before she was found dead. I know because I clean for the Mumfords on Mondays and I was on my way
to Tradmouth.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll tell you something else about Evan Mumford. I saw him hit her once. Right crack he gave
her.’

‘Who?’

‘His wife, of course. Evan Mumford is a nasty piece of work.’

Wesley suggested they pay Shane Gulliver a visit but when they called at the house there was no answer so Gerry said it would
have to wait till the next morning. Besides, it was time they went home and got some rest.

When Wesley arrived home Pam met him at the door and he kissed her absentmindedly. After he’d greeted the children, receiving
a hug from Amelia and little more than a grunt from Michael, Pam led him to the kitchen.

‘My mother called,’ she said, sitting down at the table where the remnants of a meal still lay, cold and congealing. ‘She
was on about Simon Frith again.’

‘There’s nothing more I can do. And even if there was, I’m not sure I’d want to.’

Even though he hadn’t been convicted in a court of law, to Wesley, Frith was still a man who’d assaulted an under-age girl
– the very accusation had stained him. Wesley had been the victim of prejudice from time to time in the past and he hated
it. But he found he couldn’t help how he felt. And it disturbed him.

Pam sat in silence for a few moments, watching him
intently as though she could read his thoughts. Then she spoke. ‘You know you said this case you’re involved in might be linked
to the murders of those two girls at West Fretham eighteen years ago.’

‘That’s right.’

‘My mother said Simon used to teach at their school.’

Wesley stared at her. This was something new. Something he didn’t feel inclined to ignore.

‘He taught History at Dukesbridge Comp for a while. He must have been quite young … just starting out on the glittering career
that is the modern teaching profession.’

‘So he knew the dead girls?’

‘I don’t know about that – it’s a big school with a huge staff.’

Wesley nodded. For the moment he couldn’t really see how the connection was relevant to his investigation but he’d bear it
in mind. Sometimes leads can come from the most unexpected sources.

Pam was shocked when he told her about Zac James. ‘I remember him in Ladbeat,’ she said. ‘He was very good looking. You think
his death’s connected with the murder of that journalist?’

‘It’s exactly the same MO.’

‘Has that Benley woman been found yet?’

‘We’re still looking.’ He suddenly felt like changing the subject. ‘You sure you’re OK with Neil stopping here for a while?’

She looked at him sideways, a hint of calculation in her eyes. ‘He’s always got on well with Michael, hasn’t he? I think there
might even be a bit of hero worship there. The Indiana Jones figure and all that. Maybe he’ll be able to persuade him that
academic study isn’t just for wimps.’

‘Good thinking.’ Wesley reached across the table and took her hand. ‘If your mother wants to make herself useful why don’t
you get her over to babysit while we go out?’ He felt tired but he thought he’d better make the effort.

He was almost relieved when she told him that Della already had plans for the evening. A new man on the horizon. Somehow Wesley
wasn’t surprised. He just hoped this one would be an improvement on her catalogue of past disasters.

He noticed a paperback book lying next to Pam on the kitchen table; Shane Gulliver’s
Rejected
. ‘Still not finished it?’

Pam picked up the book and flicked through the pages. ‘I’m finding it a bit heavy going, to be honest.’ She studied the back
cover for a while, as if she was reminding herself of the narrative. ‘You’ve met Gulliver – what’s he like?’

‘I’m not sure what to make of him. If his hype has any truth in it, he’s certainly come up in the world.’ Before he could
say any more his mobile phone began to ring and Wesley cursed under his breath. He’d been hoping for an undisturbed evening
before the inevitable pressure of the following day. Sunday would be no day of rest … quite the reverse.

He’d half expected it to be Gerry or someone from the incident room, but the unfamiliar caller’s number on the tiny display
aroused his curiosity. He answered with a cautious hello.

Even when the caller said his name, it took Wesley a few seconds to place him. Richard Twigg, also known as Richard the Pillock,
spoke in an urgent whisper. ‘I heard about John Grimes on the news.’ He sounded worried. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking things
over and …’

Wesley saw Pam watching him, straining to hear. When he covered the mouthpiece and mouthed the word ‘work’ he saw her roll
her eyes.

‘What is it?’ he asked. Richard had sounded as if he was afraid someone might be listening. Maybe Zac James’s death had made
him nervous and he couldn’t help wondering if the reaction was justified. Probably not. But people like to feel important.

‘They said on the news that you’re linking it with that other one. Sorry for calling so late but I figured that the sooner
I told you everything I knew, the safer I’d be.’

Wesley suspected that Richard was enjoying a bit of vicarious drama but he’d wait to hear what he had to say before passing
final judgement.

‘So what do you want to tell me?’

There was a pause. ‘I don’t know whether it’s important but a couple of weeks before Jo and Gabby were murdered I was in the
cloakroom at school and they were there. I was behind some lockers and they didn’t know I could hear …’

Wesley murmured some words of encouragement, wishing he’d get on with it.

‘Anyway they were arguing. Jo said she’d met some posh bloke from London who was staying over at Millicombe. Gabby asked her
what she was going to do about John but Jo just laughed at her. Then a few days later John started going round with Gabby.’

Wesley felt disappointed. He’d expected more than an account of some teenage falling out over boys. ‘Anything else?’ he asked,
hoping the best was still to come.

‘Jo called Gabby chicken. Said she was a coward. Then she said something about a witch – or it could have been a
bitch – and something like “He’s dead and she killed him.” At least that’s what it sounded like.’

‘This was a couple of weeks before they were killed?’

‘Yeah, about that.’

‘You didn’t tell the police at the time?’

‘I was off school with tonsillitis so they never spoke to me. Anyway, I didn’t think it was important at the time. You did
say if I remembered anything at all …’