The Shroud Maker (17 page)

‘There aren’t any fillings in the teeth if that’s any help. I’d say the skull’s female. Probably in her twenties. And, judging by the leg bones we’ve found, I’d estimate she was about five feet two, give or take an inch or so. We still haven’t uncovered the pelvis.’

Wesley did a swift calculation in his head. Jenny Bercival had been five feet four so it was still possible. As for fillings, he’d have to check. Her mother was bound to know.

‘I usually like to lift the bones as soon as possible but it’s getting dark so we’re leaving them in situ tonight. We’ll be sleeping in the house so it should be safe enough. I guess your lot might want to take some snaps and send your Forensic people over. I’ve been on to Sacha Vale, the forensic anthropologist. She’ll be here first thing in the morning to have a look.’

‘That name seems familiar.’

There was a pause. ‘Yeah. They wheel her out on TV when they’re trying to bring a touch of glamour to some crumbling bones. You must have seen her. Long red hair. Always simpering at the camera and flirting with the presenter.’

‘I know who you mean.’ He’d often seen the woman on archaeology programmes and although she seemed to know her stuff he found her irritating, as did Pam. ‘Are you still at Butcher’s house?’

‘Yeah. Fancy coming over to have a look at the bones?’

Wesley hesitated. Pam was expecting him back. On the other hand, a swift look at Neil’s discovery wouldn’t take long.

He retraced his steps, hurrying down the flight of steps and past the place where Jenny Bercival had last been seen, wondering whether he was finally about to come face to face with her, buried in the cold earth on the banks of the river.

The next morning Wesley awoke at five o’clock, trying not to disturb Pam who appeared to be fast asleep beside him. But as soon as he placed his bare feet on the floor, her eyelids flicked open.

‘What time will you be back tonight?’

‘We might have to stay over in Manchester. I’ll let you know.’ Wesley wasn’t too pleased about the prospect of spending the night in some soulless chain hotel. He knew exactly what would happen. Gerry would drag him out in search of a decent pub with a bit of character and some beer that hadn’t been processed in a chemical works. Then they’d both end up drinking too much and Gerry would get maudlin and start talking about his late wife Kathy and the problems he’d had with Rosie since her mother’s death. They’d get to bed far too late and he’d wake up the next morning with a thumping head in a strange bed in a strange room.

Pam, knowing there was nothing she could say, turned over and closed her eyes again.

Wesley hadn’t slept well. His mind had been racing, thinking about Neil’s discovery. By the time he’d reached Chris Butcher’s house the previous evening the light had been fading and when Neil had lifted the tarpaulin aside and shone a torch at the ground the bones had stood out, glowing against the soil in the artificial light. Just before his arrival, Dave had uncovered a pelvis which seemed to confirm the gender. The woman was probably young and approximately Jenny Bercival’s height but nothing had been found in the grave to date the burial. No coffin or corroded shroud pins and no convenient pottery or coins in the surrounding soil. It was a clandestine interment which suggested that the woman, whoever she was, was most likely a murder victim. She might have lain there for over six hundred years, or she could have been buried last year. Without dating evidence only science would provide the answer. But science took time and the signs of disturbance in the ground didn’t bode well.

After grabbing a slice of toast for breakfast he packed a holdall with a few overnight essentials and as he walked down to the centre of the town the sky was bright, promising a fine day. Tradmouth hadn’t yet woken up and the only activity on the river was a pair of homecoming fishing boats chugging upstream laden with lobster pots. Kassia Graylem had died at around this time that Saturday morning, a time when most people wouldn’t venture out unless they had work to do. Kassia had last been seen performing at Friday night’s Palkin’s Musik concert. What had she been doing between then and the time of her death?

Gerry greeted him on his arrival in the CID office. He wore an eager expression as he picked up the small, well-used canvas holdall by his feet.

Wesley told him about Neil’s discovery, experiencing a pang of regret that he wouldn’t be there to witness Sacha Vale’s examination of the bones. Gerry’s first question was whether it might be Jenny Bercival but when Wesley replied that they wouldn’t know until a battery of tests had been performed, he seemed to lose interest.

‘We’d better get off right away, Wes. GMP said that the widow’s expecting us around lunchtime. I suggested that we bring her back with us.’

Wesley said nothing. The prospect of a long awkward journey with a grieving woman, minding every word they said, was hardly appealing but it had to be done.

Setting off at seven thirty, Wesley estimated that they should be in Manchester before one. Then just as they were about to leave Gerry received a phone call. He wasn’t one of those people who could hide his feelings; like a child, his every emotion showed on his face as he spoke, and today’s emotion was disappointment.

He put down the receiver. ‘The new chief super wants a meeting. I told her about the Manchester trip and she said you should go with someone else. Sorry, Wes, I really wanted to be in on this but…’

‘No problem,’ said Wesley. He looked around the office. Rachel had arrived early and she was already sitting at her desk going through statements. Routine stuff.

‘Look, why don’t you take Rach with you and I’ll be able to attend Darwell’s PM with Paul?’ Gerry said. ‘She might fancy a night in the fleshpots of Manchester.’

Some quiet inner voice, a tiny bat squeak of caution, made Wesley hesitate. Gerry, though, had got the bit between his teeth. ‘A break from all this wedding stuff will do her good. She’s been looking peaky recently. Probably the stress.’

Gerry strode out into the main office and Wesley watched as he stooped to speak to Rachel. Although it was difficult to gauge her reaction, he saw her nod her head as she began to tidy the papers on her desk.

She said very little as they walked out into the car park to pick up the pool car. She seemed preoccupied and Wesley hoped she might enlighten him during their long journey. He stopped off at the cottage she shared with Trish Walton so she could pack some essentials in case they didn’t make it back to Devon that night. The cottage stood down a lane just outside the boundary of the town, near the sign announcing to drivers that they had arrived in Tradmouth. It was whitewashed and pretty but instead of a border of hollyhocks and roses around the door, the tiny front garden was paved over for convenience – the only sign that it was a rented property. After she’d announced her engagement, he’d wondered whether she’d move in with her fiancé, Nigel, whose farm was just outside Neston, hardly far away. As she’d been raised on a local farm, she was accustomed to the agricultural life.

He watched from the driver’s seat as she emerged from the cottage, giving the front door a push to ensure that it was locked. She climbed in beside him and gave him a businesslike smile.

‘Everything OK?’ he asked, more for the sake of something to say than as a genuine inquiry.

‘Fine.’

He put the car radio on. Classic FM. Not being sure of her musical taste, he asked her if she’d like something else. But again she said it was fine.

They drove on in silence, stopping only once at the services. Wesley bought a
Guardian
. Rachel used the time to study some case notes.

After Stoke on Trent her silence was beginning to unnerve him.

‘Everything organised for the wedding?’

‘More or less.’

He hesitated. ‘You don’t sound too enthusiastic. Most brides get excited at this stage.’

‘I’m not most brides.’

‘Not having second thoughts?’

She didn’t answer; and she didn’t speak again until they reached Eric Darwell’s semi-detached house in the Manchester suburbs.

Eric Darwell had been stripped of his sodden suit but the faint scent of swimming-pool chlorine still lingered in the air around his body.

Colin Bowman studied the corpse for a while before making his first incision, speaking into the microphone suspended above the table, recording his observations.

Gerry watched as he began to cut into the pale flesh, keeping up a commentary as he always did, happy to answer any question Gerry cared to put to him. Not all pathologists, Gerry knew, were so obliging.

DC Paul Johnson stood by Gerry’s side, his six-foot frame towering over his boss as he watched in silence. He didn’t avert his eyes as Gerry had expected. Instead he wore an expression of polite concentration, as though he feared Colin would take offence if he wasn’t paying attention.

When Colin had finished his work, he gave his verdict. ‘As far as I can tell he was stunned by a blow to the head and then he was pushed or he fell into the pool. He was definitely alive when he went in. His lungs are full of water. Poor chap drowned.’

Gerry raised his eyebrows. ‘A rock was found with blood and hair on it. It’s undergoing tests but we’re presuming that’s what his attacker used to stun him.’

Colin stood back a little, staring at the dead man’s head while he considered the question. ‘Unfortunately the water’s washed away any small traces the weapon might have left in the wound but a rock would certainly fit with the injuries. As for the stomach contents, he ate something that looks and smells remarkably like a hot dog with mustard a couple of hours before death. And something pink and gooey as well. Could be candyfloss. I’m thinking of the fair at the Palkin Festival.’

‘Thanks, Colin. That means he probably went down to Tradmouth shortly before he died. We’ll see if we can find him on someone’s CCTV.’

‘And by the way, he wasn’t the healthiest of specimens. In a few years’ time his arteries would have silted up like blocked tunnels. That’s what you get from a lifetime of dedicated junk food consumption. If he didn’t mend his ways I’d say he would have been dead in ten years at best.’ He gave Gerry a meaningful look, as if he wanted him to take his words as a warning.

‘Poor sod,’ said Gerry with a sigh. He glanced at Paul and saw he was nodding his head in agreement, as solemn as an undertaker on duty.

Gerry’s phone rang and he muttered an apology to Colin. After a short conversation he ended the call, an enigmatic smile on his face.

‘Everything OK, Gerry?’ Colin asked.

‘I think so. Remember that girl who went missing last year? Jenny Bercival?’

Colin nodded.

‘Her mum’s had a couple of anonymous letters claiming that she’s alive. I had them sent to Forensic and they say they’ve come up with something interesting.’

Colin returned to his work. At that moment, with the dead man lying on the table in front of him, missing girls were low on his list of priorities.

Wesley and Rachel arrived at the small red brick semi with the curved bay window. It was a suburban street, slightly run-down with an array of wheelie bins lined up on the pavements. The Darwells’ house had clean net curtains at the windows and a neat front garden, still grassed over unlike those of most of the neighbours who’d replaced their tiny lawns with paving.

Wesley recognised Julie Darwell at once from the photograph in her husband’s wallet. She was being comforted by a neighbour who told them in hushed tones that the police had been to break the news the evening before. The neighbour was a sensible-looking woman in her sixties with steel-grey hair cut severely short. But her round, plump face was kind and Wesley felt thankful that someone was looking after Eric Darwell’s widow who had the devastated look of a woman whose entire world had just collapsed around her. Julie’s son, the neighbour explained, was with a friend who had a child the same age. Luckily he was too young to realise what was going on. To him it was just another sleepover.

Rachel sat down beside Julie and Wesley left it to her to break the ice. Somehow she always seemed to find the right words. It was something he’d always admired about her, although he’d never dream of telling her.

He’d seen the same scene so often in the course of his career and it got to him every time. The woman – distraught wife or, worse still, mother – perched on the edge of a sofa, tissue in hand, numbed by shock and grief. Julie Darwell was no exception. The neighbour sat next to her with a protective arm around her shoulder, and before the questions began she shot Wesley a warning look. Be gentle. Don’t prod away at wounds that are new and raw.

‘I’m so sorry about your husband, Mrs Darwell,’ he began. In his mind’s eye he could see Eric Darwell’s body lying beside the azure pool, his saturated suit draped around him like melting wax. ‘You’ll understand that we have to ask you a few questions, just so we can get a picture of what Eric was doing down in Devon.’

Julie looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot with crying. ‘He went down there for a client.’

‘Do you have a name for this client?’ Wesley asked, his voice soft, unthreatening. The last thing he wanted was to add to this woman’s troubles.

Julie shook her head. ‘Sharon’ll know. She’s his secretary. She deals with all that.

‘ED Associates?’

Julie stared at him, surprised. ‘That’s right.’

‘We found some of his business cards. I take it he’s a private investigator.’