The Shadow Collector (26 page)

He found Neil sitting up in bed looking bored. The wounds on his face bristled with spiky black stitches and the flesh around
them was bruised and discoloured. He still looked awful but Wesley could tell he was feeling better. There was a new restlessness
about him that suggested he was anxious to be out of there.

‘Have you got it?’ were his first words.

Wesley had the coffin safe in a large Marks & Spencer carrier bag and he placed it on the bedclothes. Neil leaned forward
stiffly and delved into the bag but when he tried to lift the thing, he gave a yelp of agony and sank back on his pillows.
Wesley had no choice but to help him out.

The wood felt cold and rough as he eased it from its protective covering, careful to keep the plastic between the unhygienic
artefact and the bed cover.

Neil shuffled forward and watched Wesley prise off the wooden top, revealing the wax doll beneath.

‘Ugly looking bugger, isn’t he?’

‘It’s got a skirt. Must be a she.’

Neil stared down into the box. ‘Someone didn’t like her, whoever she was.’ Cautiously he leaned further forward. ‘I noticed
there was a layer of paper in the bottom … underneath the doll.’

Wesley peered into the box. And as he looked at the thing he felt a cold tingle pass through his body. He’d heard inanimate
objects described as evil but he’d never really believed it, until now.

‘Found the bastard who cut my brake pipes yet?’

‘Sorry.’ Wesley hesitated. ‘Has Evan Mumford ever threatened you?’

Neil’s expression was a blend of shock and amusement. ‘How do you mean?’

‘If he thought you and Harriet …’

‘Oh come on, Wes. She’s a bit of a tease but …’

Neil sat quietly for a few seconds, fidgeting with the bed-clothes. Then the smile vanished from his face. ‘Actually Harriet
has been coming on to me. Not that I’ve had the opportunity to do much about it. As for the inclination … well, she’s an attractive
woman. However, unlike some people, I’ve never found danger much of an aphrodisiac if you know what I mean. You don’t think
Evan might have got the wrong idea and …?’

‘It’s not my case but I can always arrange for a few questions to be asked. Never underestimate a jealous husband.’

Neil shrugged. ‘I can’t see it myself. Besides, Harriet’s like that with everyone. She’s always flirting with those builders.’

He returned his attention to the strange object on the bed, taking the doll out carefully and laying it beside the box. It
had been lying on several sheets of ancient paper or parchment, folded, yellowed and fragile, and as Wesley stared at it,
he saw that it was covered with faded writing.

Neil’s eyes met his. ‘This should go straight to the conservation lab but if we’re very careful it won’t do any harm to have
a quick look.’ He unfolded the delicate paper with
great care and began to read the faint letters. But after a few seconds he gave up. ‘I think it’s in some sort of code.’

He pushed it towards Wesley who studied it for a few moments. ‘I think it’s a simple substitution code. If you move one letter
back it makes sense. B for A, F for E and so on.’

Neil gave him a rueful grin as he took it from him. ‘Should have realised. Must be the concussion.’

‘I’ll leave you to wrestle with it. Give your brain a bit of exercise.’ Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I told Gerry I wouldn’t
be long.’ He nodded towards the doll. ‘Shall I leave that with you?’

‘It might be an interesting conversation piece. There’s one nurse in particular who might appreciate it.’ He yawned. The effort
of talking had tired him. ‘With any luck I’ll be out tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Dave’s promised to pick me up.’ He looked
at the doll. ‘And my friend here.’

When Wesley left the ward he made his way to Reception and enquired about Simon Frith. He was directed to one of the medical
wards where he found Simon lying on his back staring at the ceiling, a drip in his arm. At the nurses’ station he showed his
ID and asked whether it was okay to have a quick word. The dismissive way the nurse waved him towards the bed told him she
hadn’t much sympathy for attempted suicides. Wesley couldn’t agree with her. Pain comes in all varieties, not just the physical.

He pulled up a chair and sat by Simon’s bed but the man didn’t seem to register his presence.

He asked how the patient was feeling but received no reply. Then Simon closed his eyes, as though he was asleep. But Wesley
knew otherwise. He pushed his chair back
quietly and hurried out of the ward. If Simon Frith didn’t want to talk, that suited him fine.

Pauline Parry – formerly Pauline Trelisip in those far off, well-remembered days when she’d been lovable and loved – hoped
that social worker wouldn’t come again. She’d asked too many questions … and none of those questions had been about her Joanne.

It was time to go out again. If she spent enough time wandering the streets she might see her. And if she did, she wouldn’t
stare in dumb amazement like she had last time. She’d rush to her and enfold her in her arms and never let go. They’d be reunited.
The living and the dead.

She made her way slowly and breathlessly down the steep hill into the town, her legs aching with the effort and the gradient.
But hope buoyed her up, killing the pain, making time irrelevant.

It took her half an hour to reach the waterfront and once there she sat down on a damp bench, hugging her coat around her
for protection. A chill breeze was whipping in over the choppy water but she didn’t notice the cold gnawing at her hands.
She shut her eyes tight and muttered half-formed, incoherent prayers. Last time it had happened here on the quayside and now
she was yearning for a second miracle. That her long-dead daughter would return to life.

After a while she opened her eyes, stood up and moved closer to the unguarded edge, staring into the dark, shifting river,
longing to see Joanne’s face gazing back at her from the water, expressionless and pale. She took another unsteady step forward.
Then another. Then somebody shouted and she heard running feet, pounding like a heartbeat on the cobbled embankment.

When her body hit the river she gasped with the sudden shock of the chill water, swallowing salty liquid through her gaping
mouth, flailing round, half aware that Joanne was there beside her, whispering in her ear. Stop fighting. Let the water take
you. Embrace death as I did.

And when she was hauled out by a couple of fishermen who’d been nearby, preparing their boat for a night at sea, the only
thing she could tell them was that the dead walk.

Written by Alison Hadness, September 24th 1643

I met Thomas in the barn and, forgetting my marriage vows, I lay with him there
.

How sweetly we lay in each other’s arms, his flesh joined with mine once more. He said I had an appetite for sin that matches
his own. And yet it did not feel like sin
.

He talked as we lay, saying how Prince Maurice plans to attack this town and bring it under the King’s rule once more. He
says his men grow restless with this constant rain that turns all to mire. They complain of aching joints and it is only the
good supply of food and ale hereabouts that keeps them from mutiny. I told him that, despite the people’s hunger, Tradmouth
continues defiant
.

He said there is talk of witchcraft amongst the men. Some say spells have been cast that makes the prince unwell and some
say the Devil is feeding the townsfolk with huge catches of fish from the river. I told him the tale of the fish was a lie.
If Satan feeds us, why are there so many empty bellies?

When I returned to the house Elizabeth met me with a look of such hatred it was like a dagger to my heart. I found Dorcas
in great pain. Her body stiffens and she cries with agony and vomits forth all she consumes. She says Elizabeth hath bewitched
her because she knows I hold her in great affection. Many of our neighbours are similarly afflicted and there is talk that
demons stalk the town, entering folk and making them mad, their bodies twitching and jerking with visions of Satan and hell
itself
.

Thomas has promised to bring good bread when we next meet for I will not share the foul bread the townsfolk must endure
.

Neil was grateful to Pam and Wesley for providing him with a temporary refuge until he was fit to return to his Exeter flat.

After the doctor had told him he was free to leave hospital, provided he was careful, Dave picked him up and took him straight
to Wesley’s house. He sat in the passenger seat of Dave’s rickety Land Rover, wishing it had been blessed with better suspension
because every jolt shot pain through his body as though some sadistic torturer was applying electrodes to his flesh. Eventually
they arrived in the small, modern cul-de-sac at the top of the town and Dave sought out the key which Pam had promised to
leave underneath a plant pot by the front door. For a policeman, Wesley was remarkably cavalier with his security arrangements,
Neil thought. But as both he and Pam were at work, he supposed there was little choice.

Dave had put the bag containing the little coffin in the back of the Land Rover, paying more attention to its comfort and
safety than he had to Neil’s. Now he carried it carefully into the house and, once Neil was settled on the sofa, he placed
it on the Petersons’ coffee table where it shed dirt and splinters over the clean wooden top.

‘I managed to transcribe that manuscript last night,’ said Neil. ‘The nurses weren’t too pleased with the dirt on the bedclothes
but …’

‘Did they see the doll?’ Dave asked.

Neil shook his head. The delicate manuscript was inside a plastic bag that was designed to hold patients’ dirty laundry. He
took it out with exaggerated care and handed it to Dave along with a few sheets of lined paper. ‘This is only part of the
story. Did they find more of it in the other boxes?’

‘I believe so. They’re at the lab in Exeter. I’ll get copies for you as soon as I can – translating it’ll give you something
to do. What does it say?’

‘It’s a journal written by a woman called Alison Hadness – and, from the dates, it must be the same Alison Hadness who was
hanged for witchcraft in 1643.’ He touched the lined paper Dave was holding. ‘She was married to an older man who already
had a teenage daughter called Elizabeth who sounds like the classic stroppy adolescent. During the siege of Tradmouth everyone
was starving and having to make bread out of rotten grain because the Royalists were commandeering all the food and drink
from the countryside round about and blockading the town. And while all this was going on Alison met an old boyfriend.’

‘What’s his name?’

Neil consulted his notes. ‘Thomas Whitcombe.’

Dave’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ve come across that name. He was one of the officers with the besieging Royalist army – Prince Maurice’s
lot stationed at Hilton Farm. Thomas’s journal’s in the library in Exeter. It was one of the contemporary accounts I looked
at before the dig began.’

‘Great. See what else you can find out. Harriet Mumford said she was looking up Alison’s trial in Tradmouth Library. Any chance
you can ask her how far she’s got?’

‘I can try.’

Neil hesitated for a moment. ‘Do you think Harriet’s scared of her husband?’

Dave gave Neil an enquiring look. ‘Now you come to mention it she does seem a bit tense when he’s around.’

‘I think he’s a bully.’

There was a long pause. Then eventually Dave spoke. ‘It’s not often I take a dislike to someone but I must admit that whenever
I visit Mercy Hall I find myself hoping Evan Mumford won’t put in an appearance. Are you feeling up to coming out to the dig?
We’re still turning up loads of artefacts from the Royalist army in that new trench.’

‘The doc said I should take it easy today. But I’ll be there tomorrow. Pick me up first thing. And if you can get hold of
the rest of that manuscript …’

‘I’m going up to Exeter later. I’ll pop into the lab and get you a copy.’

‘Great.’ Neil gave Dave a wide grin. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a coffee? They keep it in the top left-hand cupboard.’

Pauline Parry’s encounter with the river was treated as a routine matter; an accident. But as Pauline had a connection with
the Lilith Benley case, somebody at Tradmouth Police Station had used their initiative and decided to inform the Major Incident
Team.

Rachel had been sent down to Tradmouth Hospital to have a word with the woman who had been kept in overnight as a precaution
after swallowing a stomachful of
river water. She’d been lucky, the staff told her. Local legend had it that every year the River Trad claimed a life, but
it seemed that Pauline Parry had been rejected as the annual sacrifice.

When Rachel returned to the incident room Wesley watched as she greeted her housemate, Trish, with only the faintest of smiles.
He called to her, asking if he could have a word, and she walked over to his desk, still in her coat, hands in pockets and
a faraway look in her eyes.

‘How’s Pauline Parry?’

Rachel slumped down on the chair beside his desk. He could see sadness in her eyes. ‘She’s saying she saw her daughter in
the water, beckoning to her. She believes it, Wes. She really believes she saw Joanne. Maybe after this she’ll get some proper
help.’

Wesley gave her a weak smile.

His mobile phone rang and he looked at the caller display but didn’t recognise the number. When he answered he heard a breathless
female voice which it took him a while to place. It was Selina Chester and she wanted to see him.

Wesley was only too eager to leave behind the intense atmosphere of the incident room and head for Neston. West Fretham was
a pleasant village, pretty even, but he would always associate the place with violent death. Perhaps it had been cursed ever
since Dorothy and Lilith Benley had ended the lives of two schoolgirls there. Some locations never recover from something
like that. As he climbed into the car he told himself he was being fanciful. People made evil things happen, not places.

When he reached Neston it was teeming with life. It was market day and on the square in front of the municipal
offices, New Age enthusiasts in colourful clothes brushed shoulders with farming families and elderly locals browsing the
stalls. A busker with a guitar and faithful dog was doing a roaring trade going through the collected works of Bob Dylan and
as Wesley strolled towards Selina’s shop, he felt optimistic for the first time that day.

As soon as he entered the shop Selina greeted him as if she was anxious to share a secret … or get something off her conscience.
She hurried out from behind the counter and locked the shop door before leading Wesley into the back. He was relieved when
she didn’t offer herbal tea.

She sat for a while, her eyes closed as though she was meditating. Then she opened them and looked straight at Wesley. ‘I
take it you still haven’t found Lilith?’

He shook his head.

‘You said it wouldn’t help Lilith if I didn’t tell you everything I knew.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve been thinking it over and
there is something she told me in confidence. And if somebody confides in you, trusts you with their secrets, it seems wrong
to break that trust, doesn’t it?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Wesley. ‘But if it helps us find out what’s happened to her …’

‘That’s just it. I don’t know whether it will. It might be totally irrelevant.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

She sat back in the chair and arched her thin fingers. Her nails, he noticed, were painted scarlet today; a small vanity.
It was a while before she spoke.

‘When Lilith first came here we met through our mutual interest in Wicca and we became friends. She was looking after her
mother and running the smallholding and I think she was quite lonely. I could never quite work out why she’d
left a good job in London and thrown everything up to move to Devon. Then one day I asked her.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Up till then I never knew whether she was so devoted to her mother that she was willing to sacrifice everything for her,
or whether she was trying to escape from something. It turned out it was neither of those things and I was surprised when
I found out the truth.’

Wesley held his breath, hoping that he was about the learn something important.

‘I mentioned that there was a man in London. Well, she’d come down to Morbay on holiday in the late 1980s and she’d met him
at the theatre. He was some sort of performer and he left his wife and daughter. He moved to London to be with her.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘She told me he’d died.’

‘How?’

‘Heart attack I think. After it happened she moved back in with her mother and then she decided to throw up everything and
move to a smallholding in Devon. I suppose lots of city dwellers find the rural dream irresistible.’ Selina thought for a
few moments. ‘I don’t think she had many close friends in London and she certainly didn’t have any here. I suppose I felt
quite honoured that she chose to confide in me. That’s why I’ve felt reluctant to tell you. It almost seems like a betrayal.’

‘You’ve done the right thing, Selina. But it would help if I knew who this man in Lilith’s life was. Did she mention his name
at all?’

‘I think it was Cramer and his first name began with C as well. Sorry, I can’t remember.’

‘What sort of entertainer was he?’

‘He was a comedian … or was it a magician? I’m not really sure.’

Wesley thanked her. Boo Flecker had been looking up someone called Carl Cramer on her laptop but they’d been so busy concentrating
on Shane Gulliver that they hadn’t given it much attention.

‘Are you sure you don’t know where Lilith is?’ He asked the question gently.

Selina pressed her lips together. Maybe this was a betrayal too far. Then she spoke. ‘I don’t believe she murdered those girls.
But even if she did, she’s served her sentence.’

‘Two people have died in West Fretham, Selina, and either Lilith killed them or she’s in danger herself. She might even be
dead already.’ He was about to add that he could arrest her for obstructing the police but he was loath to go that far … unless
there was no alternative.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ she said. ‘If I knew, I’d tell you.’

But he didn’t believe her for one moment.

‘Frith tried to top himself.’

‘How do you mean?’ Alex stared at Jessica who was perched on the office chair he usually kept by his desk. It was on castors
and she’d wheeled it over to the bed where he was sitting propped up against the headboard, steering it with her long, slim
legs.

She’d arrived at the front door, all anxiety, and his mother had shown her up to his room. She’d thought the company would
cheer him up. But it was all he needed.

‘He took an overdose. I heard my dad on the phone
talking to the police.’ She swallowed hard, fighting back tears. ‘He said the police thought it meant he was guilty.’

Alex turned his head away. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘It was meant to be a laugh but now I feel like a murderer.’

‘You didn’t make him do it.’

‘But I did. Why did you tell me to say it?’

‘’Cause he was a pervert and perverts deserve all they fucking get.’

‘But he never did anything. I lied to the police and if they found out I could get into trouble.’

‘Then don’t tell them.’

‘But …’

‘Look, from what I heard, it was only a matter of time before he started touching you up … or worse.’ He leaned forward and
grabbed her wrist, so tightly that she squeaked with pain. ‘Don’t go soft on me now, Jess. Remember what we agreed.’

Jessica broke free and pushed the chair across the room. Then, slinging her bag onto her shoulder she marched out, not even
bothering to say goodbye. And Alex feared he’d lost control.

As soon as Wesley returned to the incident room the phone on his desk began to ring. It was DS Geoff Gaulter from Neston.
And he had news.

‘Jessica Gaunt’s just been in to see me with her dad. She’s withdrawn her accusation against Simon Frith. Said it was a joke
that had got out of hand. Just thought you’d like to know, seeing as you were taking an interest.’ He paused. ‘Frith’s off
the hook on this one. But the trouble is, the damage may have already been done. You can produce
evidence of innocence till you’re blue in the face but an accusation like that never really goes away.’

‘What’ll happen to the girl?’

‘I’d like to charge her with wasting police time but I don’t think I’ll get the CPS to buy it. It was her dad who dragged
her in so I reckon her parents are going to give her a tough time if that’s any consolation.’