The Shroud Maker (27 page)

‘She betrayed you with him. Were you jealous?’ said Rachel. ‘Jealous enough to kill her?’

Carthage shook his head vigorously.

‘Was it you who called the police to say she’d been with Chris?’

Carthage nodded. ‘I thought he’d killed her.’

‘You were obsessed with your perfect muse,’ said Wesley. ‘You must have resented the fact she had a lover.’

‘No.’

‘We’ve only got your word for that,’ said Rachel.

Wesley saw Carthage flinch. If he’d been in a position to give Rachel a covert kick, he would have done it. She wasn’t normally so aggressive in her questioning. He could see she was putting Carthage on his guard and it was up to him to rescue the situation if they were to get at the truth.

‘I can understand how you felt,’ Wesley said. ‘She was beautiful and while she was posing for you she was yours and yours alone. Then you saw her leaving Chris’s boat and it was clear she’d spent the night with him. Maybe you spoke to her and she told you where she’d been. Maybe she even laughed about it.’

‘I didn’t speak to her. I was too far away.’

‘Did you see where she went?’

Wesley held his breath, waiting for him to answer.

‘No. I was upset. I walked away.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us all this when we spoke to you before?’

‘I didn’t want to get involved.’ He pressed his lips together in a stubborn line, as though he knew he’d said too much.

Wesley made a call to the station. He needed someone there to go through Carthage’s flat and have a look at his computer. Then he asked the artist to come to the interview room to make a formal statement, careful to make it sound like an invitation rather than a command. Artists, he knew, were sensitive souls.

Rosie Heffernan had picked up some clothes from her father’s house on Baynard’s Quay. He’d been complaining that she hadn’t taken everything with her when she’d moved out into a flat of her own. Using the place as a ruddy warehouse, was how he’d put it. Not that she was worried. Her dad was full of bluster and noise but underneath it signified nothing. He was a pussycat. She often wondered whether he was as soft on the criminals who crossed his path.

She went down the back streets, avoiding the waterfront. When she passed the side street leading to the waterfront she could see the mast, furled sails and taut shrouds of the
Maudelayne
, reminding her of her foolishness.

Clutching the plastic bag full of clothes she hurried on towards the pub where she was due to meet the others. All the members of Palkin’s Musik had arranged to have something to eat before the rehearsal for the following night’s gig – or rather Dan Hungerford had arranged it for them. Maybe, she thought, he just wanted to make sure they were all present and correct. He’d been edgy ever since Kassia’s death.

The light was fading and she could hear footsteps behind her, getting closer, ringing on the flagstones. She told herself that it was probably someone in a hurry and carried on, reluctant to look round. In a moment whoever it was would pass her without a glance.

The street was empty apart from a pair of giggling middle-aged female tourists wearing cardboard medieval headdresses which did nothing for their dignity. They were absorbed in their own concerns as they disappeared up the street leading to the church, leaving her alone except for her pursuer who seemed to have slowed his pace to match hers. Experiencing a sudden wave of panic she broke into a run, heading for the safety of the crowds at the boat float. That was when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

Before she knew it he had seized her arms and she winced at the pain of his grip as he dragged her down a narrow passage that ran between two shops. Once they were out of sight, he shoved her against the rough brick wall and she felt a stab of pain in her shoulder and his warm, beer-scented breath on her face. She was face to face with him now.

‘Why don’t you leave me alone?’ Her words came out in a hoarse whisper. Terror had taken her voice away.

He released his grip a little. ‘I’m in trouble. I need to stay at your flat for a while.’

No. I don’t want anything more to do with this. If you don’t go, I’m telling the police.’

That would be a stupid thing to do.’ His hand went to her throat before slipping downwards towards her breast, and he swore as it caught on the locket she always wore, the one with her mother’s picture inside. He tugged at the chain to free himself and Rosie heard a small metallic thud as the necklace fell to the ground. Her assailant’s hand was plunging down the neckline of her dress, groping for her breasts, when suddenly his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground.

‘Look, mate, can I buy you a drink?’ Gerry drew his wallet from his pocket. It was the least he could do for the man who saved his daughter’s life, or at least that’s how he put it.

Dan Hungerford looked embarrassed. ‘I only did what anyone would do. Lucky I was passing when I did. I take it the man’s been arrested?’

‘He’s been taken down to the station.’

Gerry looked at his daughter, who was sitting in silence.

‘How did you come to know that toerag, love?’

Rosie looked down at the broken locket chain in her hand. She flicked the little gold heart open and gazed at her dead mother’s face, unwilling to meet her father’s eyes. Gerry recognised shame when he saw it. He’d just never thought to see it in his own daughter.

She took a sip of beer from her glass, delaying tactics. It was a while before she spoke. ‘I met him in Tradmouth a couple of weeks ago. He was very charming at first, really fun. And interesting. He’d been all over Europe on the
Maudelayne
. Then he started saying things that made me uncomfortable. And he… he threatened me.’

Gerry hadn’t yet broken the news to her that Andre Gorst was wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Kassia Graylem and he didn’t know whether to broach the subject. He didn’t want to alarm his daughter by telling her that she might have been dating a murderer – flirting with death – so he said nothing.

‘Why didn’t you tell us about this, Rosie?’ said Hungerford. ‘Harry and I could have taken it in turns to see you home and —’

‘That wouldn’t have done much good, Dan. He’d managed to get hold of a key to my flat. I found him there one evening. He must have nicked it from my bag and had it copied. I’ve been staying at Sam’s. I only went to Dad’s place to get some of my things.’

‘You should have told me, love,’ said Gerry, suddenly feeling inadequate. ‘I’d have sorted it.’ He’d let her down – a senior detective, and he couldn’t even protect his own flesh and blood. ‘Sam should have let me know.’

‘I asked him not to because I didn’t want you fussing. I know what you’re like.’

She drained her glass and looked at Dan. ‘The rehearsal’s still on isn’t it?’

‘If you’re feeling up to it.’

‘Course I am. Why don’t we go and meet the others.’ She looked at Gerry. ‘I’ll spend tonight at Sam’s as arranged and move back into my flat tomorrow. Unless they let Andre out on bail.’

‘They won’t if I have anything to do with it,’ said Gerry grimly. ‘But you never know so I’ll arrange for your lock to be changed.’ He watched as Rosie began to put her coat on. ‘This Andre… did he mention anything about finding Kassia’s viol?’

Rosie’s jaw dropped open.

‘He had it?’ said Dan.

Gerry nodded. ‘It was found in his cabin. That’s why we’ve been looking for him.’

Rosie buried her head in her hands for a moment. Then she looked up. ‘Oh bloody hell, Dad, I could have been next.’

Gerry reached over and touched his daughter’s hand. ‘We’ve got him now, love.’ He looked at Dan who picked up on the signal and stood.

‘We’d better go and meet the others or we’ll be late for the rehearsal.’

Gerry watched his daughter walk meekly out of the Tradmouth Arms with Dan Hungerford by her side.

It was time to have a word with Andre Gorst.

As Gorst was led down to the cells the officers on duty turned and stared, the stares turning into muffled sniggers. It wasn’t every day that a man in medieval costume, complete with tights, turned up in the custody suite. The custody sergeant said that perhaps they should hold a fancy dress party down there. His underlings laughed dutifully.

Thanks to the Palkin Festival with its attendant pickpockets and bouts of drunken disorder around the pubs and fairground, the cells were full so it would be a matter of sharing. The custody sergeant felt uncomfortable about this but some things couldn’t be helped.

He unlocked the gate and led Andre Gorst to cell number three. A lad already in there knew the score and could show him the ropes if necessary. Not that Gorst struck him as an intimidated ingénue. He had hardly uttered a word since he was brought down to the custody suite and there was something about his brooding manner the custody sergeant found unnerving. The man gave the impression of watching, notching up any minuscule error in procedure so he could use it later to wriggle out of any charges they brought against him. The sergeant had seen his type before. When a prisoner was lippy and straightforward at least you knew where you were. But DCI Heffernan had said he wanted Gorst left in the cells overnight to sweat so who was he to argue.

He unlocked the cell door and as he guided Gorst inside the man turned to face him. ‘I know who killed that girl in the boat.’

The sergeant was quite unprepared for the revelation and the question left his lips automatically. ‘Who was it then?’

‘Let me out of here and I’ll tell you.’

The sergeant rolled his eyes and locked the door. He’d been around too long to fall for that one.

The site had begun to produce all manner of interesting finds from medieval pottery to coins and even a seal bearing John Palkin’s crest. Neil was rather relieved that no more bones had turned up.

It had also been a relief when the panoply of crime investigation had departed with the skeletons. He was still frustrated that there hadn’t been any dating evidence in the trench to confirm how long the bones had been down there. Sacha Vale hadn’t shown her face again to enlighten him. She’d probably be in the warmth of some lab now, supervising the tests. He shivered and felt a stab of envy. It was nine o’clock in the morning and a cold breeze was blowing in from the river, cutting through his combat jacket. The sun that had appeared first thing, promising a fine day, had now vanished behind a bank of grey cloud. Normal service had been resumed. Even the old man was there again, staring over the wall. They’d learned to ignore him.

One of the PhD students was standing a few yards away with a drawing board, recording the contents of the grave trench with earnest concentration. Not wanting to disturb her, Neil hurried over to the shelter of the house’s porch to make his call.

Sacha answered after three rings. She sounded abrupt, as though she’d expected to hear someone else’s voice; someone whose call would be more welcome.

‘Any news?’

‘I’m just about to ring the lab to see if the dating results have come in but I’m not holding my breath.’

‘If they do turn out to be old, God knows how much public money will have been wasted on all that forensic stuff.’

‘We could hardly take the risk, could we?’ she said haughtily as though she’d taken his last words as some personal criticism. ‘It might turn out to be a murder case yet. In my opinion the two women met violent ends.’

He heard the gate bang shut so he poked his head round the corner of the porch to see who had arrived. As soon as he recognised Chris Butcher his spirits sank. More interference. ‘Hang on, Sacha,’ he said, stepping out to greet Butcher who was carrying a briefcase and looking around as if he was searching for someone.