The Shadow Collector (7 page)

‘I’ll check whether he’s free to see you.’

This was too much for Gerry. ‘This is a murder enquiry, love. He’ll either see us here or down at the station.’

Wesley liked Gerry’s use of the traditional northern endearment and he resisted the temptation to smile at the startled look
on the woman’s face.

‘Nice place,’ he said after she’d hurried from the room, leaving them alone.

Before Gerry could reply the door opened to reveal a middle-aged man. His jet-black hair fell in curls around his shoulders
and his body was tanned and athletic. Only the lines on his neck betrayed the fact that he wasn’t in the first flush of youth.
He looked a good deal younger than the
photograph on his dust jacket. Wesley suspected that he had undergone surgery at some point and his hair was almost certainly
dyed.

He held out his hand. ‘Shane Gulliver. I suppose this is about that business at the farm next door. The wife’s just told me
…’

‘We’re hoping you can help us.’

‘I don’t see how. But go ahead – ask anything you want.’ He tilted his head to one side and assumed a co-operative expression.
Wesley had seen similar expressions before, usually on the innocent … but sometimes on the guilty.

‘You were out yesterday when my officers called.’

‘I was up in London all day – doing research for my new novel. Didn’t get back till the evening. Gwen, the missus, picked
me up from the station.’

‘You’ve made several complaints about the filming at the farm next door.’

‘There was some pop star there and his fans reckoned they had the right to come in our garden and get through the hedge. The
TV company had people guarding the gate while he was here, you see, so they tried to get in another way. They made a bloody
racket … screaming this bloke’s name. Jack something.’

‘Jackie Piper,’ said Gerry. ‘He was voted off about ten days ago.’

‘Well, there’s still all the bloody traffic and the disturbance. I need peace and quiet while I’m working. No distractions.’

Gerry stopped him before he warmed to his theme. ‘So apart from the goings-on next door, have you seen or heard anything unusual
over the past few days?’

Gulliver looked at Gerry as though he was being particularly dense. ‘If I had I would have mentioned it.’

‘The dead woman was blonde, late twenties, wearing a red coat. Have you seen her around at all?’

Gulliver shook his head, his eyes lowered.

‘Your wife wasn’t here yesterday afternoon?’

‘She was shopping in Plymouth.’

‘So she said. Was anybody else here, a cleaner or a gardener maybe? Have you any children?’

‘We’ve got a son … or rather Gwen has from a previous relationship. He usually gets a lift home from school with a friend
– gets in around half four. I’m sure he wouldn’t have seen anything. He’s only fifteen and …’

‘I suppose he took an interest in Jackie Piper?’ said Wesley.

‘Alex is a Goth – don’t think Piper was his cup of tea. As I said, he’ll be back around four-thirty so if you want to come
back and speak to him then …’

‘We’ll see,’ said Gerry, leaving the threat hanging in the air.

Wesley asked Gulliver about Lilith Benley and got the same reply his wife had given. Surprise that she’d been released and
horror that she was living in such close proximity. Standard stuff.

Gerry thanked Gulliver and made for the door. They weren’t going to learn anything here. Mrs Gulliver had been in Plymouth,
her son had been at school and Shane Gulliver had been in London. Nobody was aware of anything out of the ordinary over the
past few days, apart from the filming at Jessop’s Farm. Certainly not a knife-wielding murderer fleeing across their garden.

If the killer had made his escape through the front gate he would have been spotted by the film crew, all of whom had been
interviewed and had seen nothing. And as the
rectory route seemed unlikely, that left Devil’s Tree Cottage land. If the murderer had parked a vehicle at the end of Lilith
Benley’s winding drive, it wouldn’t have been visible from the cottage – and if he’d skirted round her fields, he could easily
have gained access to the field where the body had been found by climbing the gate.

‘Maybe once we’ve seen Joe Jessop, we should have another word with Lilith Benley,’ said Gerry as they walked to the car.

‘She’s already told us she didn’t see anything. Wouldn’t that be construed as harassment?’

‘If she didn’t want the police to harass her, she shouldn’t have murdered those two lasses,’ said Gerry righteously.

Wesley said nothing.

The sun was peeping half-heartedly through the clouds as Neil watched his colleagues working in the trench. From the wooded
spur of land that had been named Princes Bower during the Civil War – after King Charles I’s nephew, Prince Maurice, who had
laid siege to the town – there was a spectacular view of Tradmouth Castle and the wide expanse of sea beyond. But his mind
was on the excavation as he walked around the edge of the trench examining the contents of the finds trays; a motley collection
of musket balls, coins and clay pipes, mundane souvenirs of extraordinary times. The members of the public who had participated
in the dig so enthusiastically all summer had long departed, back to their day jobs and colleges, leaving the professionals
to tie up the loose ends before returning the site to nature and the occasional adventurous walker.

The fortifications at Princes Bower had been built by the Royalist army that had taken Tradmouth in 1643 after a
month-long siege. Three years later they’d served as a refuge for around a thousand occupying Royalist soldiers who’d fled
the town when Tradmouth was retaken by General Fairfax. Because of the site’s inaccessibility and the fact that it was on
protected National Trust land, it was a well-preserved reminder of the time England had torn itself apart. Brother against
brother. Son against father.

With few exceptions, the citizens of Tradmouth back then had supported Parliament’s cause against King Charles I who had demanded
exorbitant fines and taxes from the port to support his unpopular regime. Nobody likes the taxman. Some things never change.

The carving in the garden at Mercy Hall, the image of the hanging woman and the date 1643, had aroused Neil’s curiosity so
he’d done some research of his own. In 1643 Mercy Hall had been a notable house overlooking the town, elevated above the bustle
of the quayside and the narrow, stinking streets. It had been home to the Hadness family who has prospered from Tradmouth’s
burgeoning trade with Newfoundland. He’d also found an account of Alison Hadness’s trial for witchcraft. When he visited the
Hall again, he’d tell Harriet Mumford all about it. But in the meantime he had a job to do.

Yielding to temptation, he took his trowel from his pocket and grabbed a kneeling mat before climbing into Dave’s trench where
his colleague greeted him with a nod and a grin.

He worked for an hour or so, scraping away the earth, and he had just uncovered a trio of musket balls when he heard a female
voice calling his name. He looked up and saw Harriet Mumford standing a few feet away on the edge of the trench, wrapped up
warm against the cool breeze
blowing in from the English Channel with a red woolly hat hiding her long, silky hair.

Neil straightened himself up, suddenly aware of his unkempt appearance … and hoping she wasn’t there to bring him bad news.

A strand of hair escaped from her hat and she pushed it back with an ungloved hand. ‘I thought I’d better come and tell you.
The builders have been removing that panelling and …’

‘I thought they were going to wait till I was there.’ They’d disobeyed his instructions and he felt a pang of irritation.

‘The Conservation Officer came and said it was OK,’ she said. She looked anxious. Maybe there’d been an accident and that
ancient panelling was damaged beyond repair. He waited for her to continue.

‘They found something in the space between the panelling and the wall.’

‘What was it?’ Neil felt relieved … and suddenly hopeful that his routine job as local conservation officer might yield something
out of the ordinary.

Harriet lowered her voice. ‘It’s a coffin,’ she said. ‘They’ve found a tiny little coffin.’

Journal of Thomas Whitcombe, Captain in the King’s army, September 10th 1643

Our commander offered most generous terms for Tradmouth’s surrender but the people have erected barricades at each road and
track into the town, strengthened the forts and fortified the churches. Such gross defiance caused Prince Maurice to lay siege
to the town and we have made our headquarters at Hilton Farm, not half a mile from the church of St Leonard on the hill overlooking
the town and the river
.

At the farm I share my quarters with six other officers while Prince Maurice and his servants have the best chamber. The men
shift for themselves in tents and outbuildings but I fear the ground has become a mire as rain pours incessantly from the
grey sky. Such weather does not bode well for our campaign and I fear that the men will grow restless if our victory is not
swift
.

As I already have knowledge of the town, I will find a way through the barricades and spy upon the townsfolk
.

The prospect of a meeting with Alison tempts me greatly. But I
know not if she still resides in Tradmouth … or even whether she still lives
.

Lilith Benley had told them nothing the previous day. All she wanted, she’d said, was to be left in peace. But her very presence
there bothered Gerry. And it was starting to bother Wesley too.

As they drove the short distance to Jessop’s Farm, Wesley asked Gerry if he thought Lilith had been telling the truth. Gerry
had known her all those years ago. He’d seen her being interviewed and he knew how she reacted. And whether or not she was
a convincing liar.

‘We won’t know if there’s a connection with Benley until we know who the dead woman is,’ Gerry replied.

To Wesley the answer seemed disappointingly noncommittal. He parked the car near the gate and they walked in amicable silence
towards Jessop’s Farm. The TV company’s vehicles had gone and, according to the constables on duty, Joe Jessop had been complaining
about the interruption to his new and valuable source of revenue. Times were hard for farmers, he said, and he was still having
to put up with unwanted intrusion while the crime scene team continued their search. Jessop’s animals had had to be moved
so the police could do their job unhindered by a woolly audience. Only Fin, Jessop’s enthusiastic young border collie, seemed
to be relishing the extra work.

Wesley and Gerry found Jessop hosing down the cow shed, a martyred expression on his face. The farmer was in his forties but
his weather-beaten face and greying hair made him look a lot older. As soon as he spotted the two detectives he turned off
the hose.

‘You in charge?’ he asked Gerry accusingly.

‘Sorry for the disruption, Mr Jessop. And thanks for letting us use your house. Your co-operation’s much appreciated,’ Wesley
said, calming the waters.

Jessop gave a curt nod of acknowledgement.

‘We need a word,’ said Gerry.

‘I’ve already made a statement. I never saw that dead woman before and I’ve no idea who she was or what she was doing on my
land.’

‘We’ve met before.’

The farmer’s defiant expression vanished and he suddenly looked wary, as though Gerry’s words had resurrected bad memories.
‘Aye. Years ago.’

‘Wasn’t your dad running the farm back then?’

‘He died two years back.’

‘Sorry to hear that. This is DI Peterson, by the way.’

The farmer nodded to Wesley who gave him a businesslike smile in return.

‘You gave evidence at the Benley women’s trial,’ Gerry said.

Jessop didn’t answer.

‘How do you feel about Lilith coming back?’

‘She’s done her time.’

‘Have you seen her since she came back?’ Wesley asked.

‘No. But I need to ask her if she wants to sell some of her land. She’s got a couple of fields I wouldn’t mind getting my
hands on. And with her being on her own, I reckon she won’t be needing them.’

‘At the trial you said you saw the two girls hanging round,’ said Gerry. ‘You said they’d been tormenting the Benley women.’

‘I told the court what I knew. Those girls hung around
the Benley place, giggling and chanting. Calling them witches. You can only push people so far.’

‘Did the girls give you any trouble?’ Wesley asked.

He didn’t answer for a few moments. ‘I think they left a gate open once and some of the sheep got out … not that I could prove
anything.’

‘I believe they lived in the village.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So you knew them?’

‘Not really. They were just a pair of silly kids.’

There was another question Wesley had particularly wanted to ask. ‘Is it normal for pigs to eat dead bodies?’

‘Pigs’ll eat anything that’s put in front of them.’ The farmer grinned showing a row of uneven grey teeth. ‘Even a ham sandwich.’

‘Even bones?’

‘They’ve got strong jaws.’

‘Let’s talk about the woman who was murdered yesterday,’ Wesley said, trying to banish the lurid vision of the girls’ gruesome
fate from his mind. ‘You sure you didn’t see her hanging around? She was wearing a bright red coat.’

‘If someone’s up in that top field I can’t see them from down here.’

‘But you saw those girls eighteen years ago?’

‘It was lambing time,’ he said as though this explained everything. ‘I was seeing to the ewes at all hours of the day and
night and I was there when they were walking up to the Benley place. I told the police all this at the time.’

‘Could the woman in the red coat have gained access to your field via Lilith Benley’s land?’ Wesley glanced at Gerry and saw
that he was listening intently.

‘It’d be easy enough. There’s an old gate set in the
hedgerow. It’s been rusted shut for years but anyone could climb it. And the TV people were coming and going round the drive
and the house so she can’t have got in that way without being seen.’

‘What about your other neighbours? The author and his wife?’

‘Never had nothing to do with ’em. They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them.’

Wesley heard someone calling Gerry’s name. A uniformed constable was hurrying towards him, bursting with untold news. They
walked to meet him, leaving Jessop to his work.

‘What’s up?’ Gerry asked as soon as he was within earshot.

‘The search team’s found a handbag stuffed into a hedge not far from where the body was found … on the Benleys’ side it was.
It’s been taken to the farmhouse if you want a look.’

‘Well let’s have a shufti,’ said Gerry, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. He began to march towards the house
and Wesley followed. If their luck was in they might soon have a name for the victim.

Wesley glanced at his watch with a nagging feeling of dread. The woman’s postmortem was in two hours. And there wouldn’t even
be Colin’s customary tea and biscuits to sugar the pill.

As soon as they reached the farmhouse door it began to drizzle again. Rain wasn’t good for crime scenes and the CSIs would
be cursing. They were using Jessop’s house as a temporary base during the search – somewhere they could co-ordinate everything
and make the essential cups of tea that oiled the wheels of any investigation. Although Wesley
had told Joe Jessop that his co-operation was appreciated, he hadn’t mentioned that he was a suspect. Joe had been around
eighteen years ago helping his father run the farm. And he was still there. Living alone with only his dog for company.

They made for the kitchen where three officers were sipping tea and chatting. As soon as Gerry and Wesley entered the room
mugs were drained and the underlings tried their best to look busy.

DC Nick Tarnaby was standing by the window and Wesley asked him how far they’d got with the house-to-house enquiries in the
nearby village.

Tarnaby dragged his hand through his thinning red hair and said he thought they’d finished and the reports would be back at
the station.

‘I want to set up an incident room in West Fretham,’ Gerry announced. ‘Nick, you seem to be standing there doing nothing so
can you set the ball rolling? See if you can get the church hall. It’ll be easier than trailing to and fro from Tradmouth
all the time.’

Gerry was right. Things would be much easier with a dedicated incident room, somewhere the locals could visit easily if they
had anything to report. Wesley saw a flash of panic in Tarnaby’s eyes, as though he feared he was out of his depth. The man
wasn’t the brightest star in the Constabulary’s firmament and Gerry had often contemplated returning him to Uniform. But Wesley
knew that the DCI was softer than he liked his colleagues to believe and, so far, he had always given the man another chance.
One day, however, Nick’s chances were bound to run out.

Wesley caught Nick’s eye. ‘If you have any problems, see DS Tracey,’ he said quietly.

Tarnaby didn’t react, not even a grateful look. Sometimes Wesley wondered if it was the colour of his skin that made the man
so stand-offish. But anything like that would be hard to prove, any hint of racism being the ultimate taboo in the modern
police service.

‘Where’s this handbag then?’ said Gerry, looking around.

A young female PC stepped forward, bolder than the rest who were edging sheepishly towards the door. ‘It’s bagged up in the
parlour ready to be taken back to the station by the Exhibits Officer.’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Gerry sounded impatient.

The woman hurried away and returned a few moments later with a plastic evidence bag containing a soft tan leather shoulder
bag, undoubtedly expensive. Wesley put on his crime scene gloves before taking it out of its protective cocoon and placing
it on the table by the window. The room had emptied now. Only Nick Tarnaby and the PC remained, staring at the bag as though
they expected it, like Pandora’s Box, to release all the evils of the world.

Wesley poured the contents out. A hairbrush with fine fair hair caught up in its bristles; a pack of tissues; a purse containing
thirty pounds in notes and some loose change; a pen; a nail file. No diary, no credit cards, no mobile phone and no address
book.

‘Somebody’s been through it and removed anything that could identify her,’ he said.

‘Which means that if we knew who she was, we’d be halfway to identifying the killer,’ said Gerry. ‘He’s done a thorough job
of searching the bag which means he didn’t panic. And nobody saw him so he’s either been lucky or clever.’

‘Joe Jessop has every reason to be round and about the
farm. He could have killed her before he went off to the market. Rupert Raybourn’s been in the habit of going up to the top
field to get away from the others. And Zac James said he was holed up in his room all afternoon but he could easily have sneaked
out. We need to go through all the TV company’s footage to see if there’s anything to place Raybourn and James at the appropriate
time. And we mustn’t forget the crew, although they’re all vouching for each other.’

‘Zac James has buggered off and there’s still no sign of him. That’s hardly the behaviour of a man with nothing to hide.’

‘He has got something to hide. The drugs.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s not a killer, Wes.’

Wesley looked at his watch. If they grabbed some lunch now there would be plenty of time to get to the hospital for the postmortem
at two.

‘Fancy a sandwich?’

Gerry sighed. ‘As long as it’s not ham.’

Neil held the little coffin in his hands with horrified care like a bereaved parent carrying the body of a child. Constructed
from roughly hewn wood, it was barely two feet in length.

‘Where exactly was it found?’

‘They removed the section of panelling nearest the fireplace and found it resting on the floor behind.’

‘Where are the builders now?’

Neil looked at Harriet. He was sure she blushed but it might have been his imagination.

‘A couple of them went off in the van to fetch some materials but Lee’s around somewhere. They’re all pretty spooked.’

‘Have you looked inside?’ Neil hoped the answer would be yes. He’d never thought of himself as superstitious but he didn’t
fancy being the first to break the seal of centuries. Some atavistic voice deep inside warned of ancient curses. But he told
himself not to be so childish and placed the box on the old table in the corner of the room where it lay, a grim reminder
of mortality.

‘Do you think it’s a child?’ Harriet asked as he stood staring at it.

This was what Neil feared most; opening the box and finding a tiny skeleton lying there inside. That would involve the police
and the coroner and he didn’t feel up to facing all that just now. Besides, the thought of the small person, discarded and
lying cold and forgotten behind the panelling, uncared for in death as in life, disturbed him more than he’d expected.

The wood had been fixed down firmly but time had corroded the nails and when he touched it he knew that the top would lift
off easily. The scientist inside him noted that the wood was in a good state of preservation because of the dry conditions.

He lifted one small plank away with tender care. Then another. Then he leaned over to look inside the void and he could sense
Harriet behind him, smell the perfume she always wore.

‘What is it?’ she whispered. He felt her warm breath on his ear.

As he removed the final plank he could see that this was no new-born child, disposed of without ceremony to avoid disgrace.
This was a thing with waxy skin bristling with rusty pins.

It had a grinning face … and teeth. It took Neil a few
seconds to realise that these weren’t real but chips of painted wood. There was evil in the thing’s smile … even Neil with
his scientist’s scepticism could see that. The very sight of it lying there in the rough wood coffin made his flesh crawl.
It wore a long black gown, roughly made, and its hands resembled the talons of a bird. The eyes were gouged out hollows and
one eye was pierced by a pin, protruding from that dreadful waxen face like an arrow. The other pins had been stuck in the
body, in the belly, the breasts and between the legs. As Neil gazed at it he could almost feel the hatred that had brought
about its creation.