The Shroud Maker (16 page)

It was five minutes before Colin stood up and took off his gloves. His face was serious.

‘You’d better get the area cordoned off as a crime scene, Gerry. Our friend here’s had a nasty blow to the back of the head, although it probably wasn’t enough to kill him. I won’t be able to say anything for certain until I get him on the slab but, in my opinion, it could be suspicious.’

‘Better get the team down here then,’ Gerry said, nodding to Wesley who proceeded to make the necessary calls.

They left Colin to go about his business. The CSIs and the whole panoply of forensic investigation would be arriving shortly but they had things to do.

The reception office was their first port of call. There they found a young woman with unnaturally black hair and a figure which suggested a passion for junk food. There was a half-eaten doughnut sitting on a plate beside her like an inflated half-moon. Dressed from head to toe in mourning black, she looked up through heavy false eyelashes as they entered.

It was Wesley who did the talking. As the girl, who introduced herself as Siobhan, turned the sign on the glass door to Closed and pulled down the blind, she looked nervous but, in Wesley’s experience, a lot of people did when questioned by the police.

‘You told one of our officers that the man found in the swimming pool was staying here and that his name was Eric Darwell.’

Siobhan nodded.

‘Is there anybody here who’d be willing to identify the body?’ Wesley spoke gently. ‘The park owner or…?’

‘As far as I know he never met him.’

‘Did Mr Darwell have a car?’

She consulted a ledger and nodded. Yeah. Here’s the number. Cars for that chalet should be left in car park two, just near the site entrance.’

Wesley called the search team. Someone would have to examine the dead man’s car in case he’d left anything in there that might provide information. When he’d finished, he addressed the receptionist.

‘Who found him?’

Siobhan swallowed hard. ‘I did. The woman in chalet seventy-three lost her purse and I was looking for it. She’d been at the pool yesterday, you see, and I said I’d look in the changing room ’cause it’s locked today because of the weather. Anyway, I went into the pool area and there he was just floating there. I’ve never seen a dead body before and… Then I ran back here and called the police.’

‘Did the dead man always wear a suit?’ Gerry asked.

‘Yeah. I thought it was a bit odd. But he did say something about being down here on business. And every time I saw him he was carrying a briefcase.’

‘Would you be willing to identify him?’ he said. He felt reluctant to put the girl through the ordeal but the sooner they had a positive ID the better.

‘You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, love,’ Gerry added. ‘But it would be a help.’

Siobhan looked from one policeman to the other, her eyes wide with panic. ‘I don’t think I could. Can’t you get someone else to do it?’

Wesley felt sorry for her and asked if anyone else would be likely to recognise him. The answer was no but she still couldn’t bring herself to look at him again. They’d have to rely on the ID from his pocket until the next of kin were informed.

‘I believe you’ve been keeping an eye on Mr Darwell,’ said Wesley.

‘How did you know that?’

‘The constable up at the pool told us. He said you had your suspicions about him.’

‘Not suspicions exactly,’ she said, twisting the large silver ring she wore round and round nervously on her finger. ‘I just thought it was a bit odd. I mean, a man here on his own. We usually get families or couples. Or sometimes groups of friends. And it’s half term and the festival so there’s lots of kids and…’

‘You didn’t believe his story about not being able to find other accommodation? You thought he might have been a paedophile.’ Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. If this was the case they might be looking for a vigilante or a vengeful parent. Either way, the culprit shouldn’t be difficult to find.

‘I don’t know. I never saw him looking at kids or anything like that but…’

Wesley understood. In this day and age the public saw child molesters behind ever bush. But if Eric Darwell’s tastes lay in that direction, there was sure to be evidence somewhere. And the best place to start was his chalet.

Siobhan showed them the way, walking a little ahead. When she arrived at the small, whitewashed chalet she unlocked the door with her spare key and pushed it open, standing aside so the two detectives could enter. Wesley thanked her and said they could manage.

Before they looked round the dead man’s chalet Wesley put in a request for the team to interview everyone in the holiday park in case they’d seen anything. The Manchester address the dead man had provided when he rang to book a week previously matched the one on the driving licence and Gerry made a call that would set the ball rolling with the police up there. All the routine stuff was dealt with. Now it was time to find out all they could about Eric Darwell’s life.

The chalet consisted of a compact lounge with a small kitchen area in the corner. There were two bedrooms, one with bunk beds and one with a double, and a tiny bathroom with a bath, basin and lavatory. No shower. The place clearly hadn’t been modernised since the 1980s apart from newish floral curtains and a grey cord carpet. It was cheap accommodation for families on a budget. Those who desired luxury went elsewhere.

‘No sign of a briefcase,’ Wesley observed.

‘Killer might have nicked it. Was a chalet key found in his pockets?’

Wesley nodded.

They took a look around the living room but discovered nothing there of a personal nature. The bedroom, Wesley imagined, would be the place he’d keep anything important he’d brought with him. He looked in the small built-in wardrobe, which revealed three clean white shirts as well as a couple of polo shirts and a pair of chinos, presumably for his off-duty hours, making Wesley wonder what the nature of the man’s business had been.

Wesley searched through the drawers, pushing underwear aside to examine the furthest recesses.

He reached up and lifted down a suitcase that had been placed on top of the wardrobe. When he laid it on the bed and opened it, he could see something inside. A small box containing a wad of business cards and a few A5 fliers, all bearing the same details.

Wesley’s mobile phone rang – a tinny rendition of Mozart’s overture to
The Marriage of
Figaro
. It was one of the search team and he had news. A rock had been discovered in a herbaceous border just outside the swimming-pool enclosure: a rock that bore traces of blood and hair.

The others had departed at five o’clock, leaving Neil and Dave to their clandestine excavation. They worked quickly, prepared to abandon the trench at the first sign of Butcher’s return and pull the tarpaulin over to hide their activities if necessary. But he still hadn’t turned up, which was unusual as he called in most days to keep an eye on his investment. At six they took a break to fetch fish and chips from the town because neither of them worked well on an empty stomach, though Neil had wolfed them down so fast that now he had the beginnings of indigestion. He tried to ignore his churning stomach as they dug deeper.

So far they hadn’t come across any more bones, nor had they found any pottery or coins that might provide useful dating evidence. In spite of this Neil was determined to carry on until they reached the natural.

‘Hey up.’

Neil raised his head. Dave was sitting back on his heels, pointing his trowel at the ground.

Neil hoisted himself upright and shuffled to the other end of the trench. When he saw what Dave was pointing at, he bent down to get a closer look. Something smooth stood out against the soil, stained yellow-brown like the walls of some old-fashioned pub before the smoking ban came in. The rest of the object was hidden beneath the surface but Neil already knew what it was. He retrieved his trowel and began to help, carefully easing the soil away until the thing was recognisable as a human skull, grinning up at him with empty cavities where the eyes had once been.

‘Definitely human,’ said Dave. ‘We’ll have to notify the coroner and the police.’

Neil nodded. He knew the rules only too well. ‘Chris Butcher won’t be pleased.’

‘It might have been found when the builders started digging the foundations for the extension. We’ve just beaten them to it.’

Neil looked around. The greater section of the garden was still unexcavated. What if there were more graves? What if Chris Butcher had wanted to close the trench down because he’d already suspected what they might find in it?

He took his mobile from his trouser pocket, but before he could make the call he heard the gate open. It was Chris Butcher and he looked worried. More than worried, angry. Neil positioned himself in front of the trench, blocking Butcher’s view.

‘Something the matter?’ Butcher asked.

‘You told us not to dig where that bone turned up. Why was that exactly?’ said Neil with a new-found boldness, born of having the law on his side.

For once Butcher looked unsure of himself. ‘I told you. I didn’t want any holdups. Why? Have you found some more?’

‘See for yourself.’

Butcher walked to the edge of the trench slowly, almost reluctantly and stared down at the skull. For a few moments he stood in transfixed silence.

‘Did you know it was down there?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I’ll have to report it, you know. It’s routine procedure whenever human remains turn up unexpectedly during an excavation.’

Chris Butcher seemed to deflate like a pricked balloon before their eyes. ‘Astrid’s fed up with the delay already. She’s saying I should never have called you in. Can’t you pretend you haven’t seen it?’

‘Sorry, can’t do that. And by the way,’ said Neil. ‘The police were here before, looking for you.’

‘They bloody found me,’ he said. Butcher left without another word, slamming the gate behind him.

It was almost eight when Wesley called Pam. He hadn’t needed to tell her he’d be late; she’d guessed that already. He said he’d be back as soon as he could.

He had been trawling through the witness statements gathered from the Newlands Holiday Park. Predictably nobody had seen anything suspicious, although one or two people had noticed a man in a suit and assumed he was some visiting salesman or something to do with the holiday park’s financial side. Nobody had paid the dead man much attention, apart from one particularly observant guest who’d seen him near the car park carrying a black briefcase. The briefcase that hadn’t been found either at the scene of his death or in his chalet or car.

Wesley knew that Gerry had already rung Joyce to cancel the meal they’d planned for that evening and that he’d also called Rosie, just to see if she was all right. The call hadn’t lasted long and Wesley, who hadn’t been able to help overhearing, sensed she’d been short with her father, impatient with what she’d probably interpreted as fussing.

Gerry had received word from Greater Manchester Police that Eric Darwell’s widow had been informed. He’d told them they’d travel up tomorrow to speak to her. Darwell’s postmortem had been booked for ten o’clock the following morning but they’d have to delegate that to someone else in the team and await the verdict. Wesley was relieved to escape a trip to the mortuary. A long drive north seemed attractive in comparison.

They’d finally managed to contact Kassia Graylem’s friend, Lisa, in Didsbury and while Wesley was up in Manchester he planned to pay her a visit. It was about time they made some more progress on that investigation and speaking to someone who knew her might give them the lead they needed.

Gerry emerged from his office and told him to get off home.

Wesley didn’t need telling twice. He left the station before Gerry could change his mind.

As he walked home past the Porpoise he thought of Jenny Bercival. The anonymous letters received by her mother were being examined but Forensic were taking their time. He climbed the steps up to Albany Street and trudged up the steep hill. As he passed North Lodge he could see that a light was on in Miles Carthage’s first-floor living room. The blind had already been pulled down but Wesley found himself wishing that he could see into the room beyond. He was sure Carthage knew more about Kassia Graylem than he was letting on.

He was halfway up the street when his mobile began to ring. The call was from Neil, and from the urgent note in his voice Wesley knew he had important news.

‘Dave and I have found a body.’

Wesley stopped walking and shut his eyes. This was all he needed. ‘Tell me more,’ he said, dreading the answer. The possibility that the disturbed area of earth in Chris Butcher’s garden might be Jenny Bercival’s last resting place had already flashed briefly across his mind and his heart started to beat a little faster.

‘About three feet down we found more bones, including a skull,’ Neil continued. ‘I’m calling it in. The coroner’s been informed.’

‘How long would you say they’ve been down there?’ Neil was used to dealing with ancient skeletons. After all this time he was bound to have a feel for these things.

‘Hard to say.’

Wesley was frustrated by the answer. Still, he knew it was often hard to be exact without further tests and detailed examinations.