The Skeleton Room (11 page)

‘Are you telling me the plasterwork you knocked down to get into that room was fairly modern . . . not eighteenth-century?’

There was relief on Marty’s face. ‘Yeah. That’s it. It wasn’t horsehair plaster like the old stuff. It . . .’

Wesley nodded. Marty had just confirmed Neil’s findings. ‘Thanks for telling me.’

‘Is that all right, then?’ Marty asked nervously.

‘Well, you’ve just doubled my workload, but apart from that . . .’ said Wesley, with a weary smile.

Steve Carstairs was back on duty at eight. Overtime. He just had time to get something to eat and see what Harry Marchbank
wanted. Visiting the sick wasn’t something Steve enjoyed – he usually avoided it if he could. But Harry had said it was urgent.
A matter of life and death.

As Steve walked into the ward, he realised he should have brought something; flowers or grapes were traditional. But somehow
he had never thought of Harry Marchbank as a flowers-and-grapes type. And he doubted that a bottle of vodka – Harry’s favourite
tipple – would be allowed.

Harry spotted him and began to raise himself up on his pillows. Steve saw that he was wired up to some sort of machine that
emitted muted electronic bleeps. The dark shadows beneath his eyes stood out against grey-tinged flesh. He didn’t look well.
In fact he looked bad.

Steve approached the bed slowly and forced his mouth into a smile. ‘Harry, my old mate, how are you doing?’ he said with false
bonhomie. ‘What have you been doing to yourself? You look like you’re wired up to the national grid.’ Make light of it, he
told himself. Don’t treat Harry like a sick man.

Harry was sitting up, trying to act as though he were in the best of health. He looked round, clearly not wanting to be overheard.
‘Bloody quacks. They reckon I’ve had some sort of heart attack. A warning, they said.’ He pulled at the wires, making Steve
afraid that he was about to dislodge something vital. ‘Look at all this lot. Load of bloody fuss about nothing. I just had
a bit of indigestion and came over all dizzy. It was when I started running in that heat, that’s what did it. There’s nothing
the bleeding matter with my heart.’

‘Don’t tell me, tell them,’ Steve said quickly. But Harry wasn’t listening.

He leaned forward. ‘I saw him,’ he said in a loud
whisper. ‘I saw Carrington. He was here in Tradmouth. When he spotted me he made a run for it. I followed him and that’s
when this happened.’ He paused, as though trying to catch his breath. ‘Look, mate, you’ve got to track him down for me. I
can’t do anything while I’m stuck in here, but as soon as the quacks let me out I’ll take over.’

‘Sorry, Harry, but I’ve got a lot on at the moment. We’ve got a murder and . . .’

‘I’m not expecting you to do my job for me. Just a few discreet enquiries. You know the sort of thing. According to his mother-in-law,
he comes down this way on his own for a couple of weeks every year but she doesn’t know where he stays. I’ve checked out all
the letting agencies in Tradmouth but I’ve not tried Neston yet . . . or Dukesbridge. All I’m asking you to do is make a few
phone calls. It’s just that I’m afraid he’ll get the wind up and scarper now he knows I’m here.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Steve, it’s not much. Just a couple of phone calls to help out an old mate.’ Harry lay back on his pillows and assumed
a martyred look. He hadn’t expected so much resistance to his suggestion, but he calculated that if he looked ill enough Steve
would feel obliged to cooperate.

‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Good lad,’ said the invalid with renewed vigour. ‘There’s a picture of Carrington in my locker. Not a good one, more’s the
pity, but we can’t have everything, can we.’

Steve took the photograph from the locker and stared at it. ‘Not much to go on,’ he said, disappointed. ‘Couldn’t you get
a better one?’

‘That’s all I’ve got. He drives a silver Nissan – I’ve written the registration number on the back of the photo. And don’t
let Scouse Gerry get wind of what you’re up to . . . or our dark friend. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, smug
bastard.’

Steve nodded solemnly as he placed the photograph in his
wallet. ‘I can’t promise anything but I’ll do my best.’

‘That’s all any of us can do, isn’t it, son.’

Harry closed his eyes. Sooner or later he’d catch up with Robin Carrington.

Wesley Peterson arrived home at six, hoping that Pam was feeling up to doing the cooking. He was tired. But then there was
every likelihood Pam would be too.

He found her lying on the sofa watching Michael, who was posting brightly coloured shapes into a box and emitting a low grizzling
whine. He was tired too after his day at the childminder’s. The television droned in the corner; some advert full of gleeful
actors offering loans at amazingly low rates of interest.

Wesley stood in the doorway for a few moments, taking in the scene and asking himself why they put themselves through this,
why they rushed to and fro exhausting themselves. But he knew the answer: they couldn’t live as they did without money and,
as neither of them had large private incomes or lottery wins, that meant either getting into debt or working for it. Wesley’s
parents had raised him to prefer the latter option.

‘How are you?’ He asked the question out of habit but one look at Pam’s drawn, pale face told him the answer.

‘Okay,’ she said bravely. ‘Michael’s had his supper. I’ll put him to bed and then I’ll make us something.’ She thought for
a moment. ‘I suppose we should really get one of the neighbours in to baby-sit and go and see my mother.’

Wesley flopped down in the armchair, fearing that it was going to be hard to get back up again once he was settled. ‘No need.
I saw her this morning. She was demanding strong liquor and reminiscing about her schooldays. Not much wrong with her.’

Pam looked at him, surprised. ‘That was nice of you. I’m sure she appreciated . . .’

‘I might be popping in tomorrow as well.’

‘What’s brought this on?’ Pam hadn’t expected her
husband to take such an interest in the health of his mother-in-law.

‘She’s helping us with our enquiries. We’ve evidence that the body we found at Chadleigh Hall might date from the time the
place was a school – about the time your mother was there.’

Pam pressed her lips together. She might have known this elaborate display of family devotion had something to do with work.

‘We had to start somewhere and your mother just happened to be handy.’

‘Handy isn’t a word I’d use to describe my mother,’ Pam muttered under her breath as she stood up. She bent to lift Michael
from his playpen and winced with sudden pain.

‘What is it?’ Wesley asked anxiously.

‘I’m okay. Just a twinge. It’s nothing. Don’t fuss.’

Wesley stood up and took Michael from her. The baby chuckled, glad to be released from the confines of his prison, and pulled
at his father’s hair, a new game.

‘You sit down,’ Wesley ordered. ‘I’ll put Michael to bed and make the supper. Okay?’

Pam sank into the soft cushions of the sofa and smiled weakly. ‘Thanks,’ she said softly, stroking her stomach.

He stood with a contented Michael in his arms, watching her. She caught his eye and shifted in her seat.

‘You’re not wearing it,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The necklace . . . your gift from a grateful pupil.’

Pam blushed. ‘Er . . . no. Not today.’ She opened her mouth to say something else but thought better of it.

‘You should wear it. It’s pretty. It looked expensive, you know.’

‘Well, I’m sure it wasn’t,’ she snapped. She lay back against the cushions, her legs spread out inelegantly. ‘Can’t you stop
playing Mr Plod for one minute, Wesley? Can’t you see a piece of jewellery without wondering whether it’s been nicked? Lighten
up, will you. You’re off duty.’

Wesley looked at her, hurt. ‘I only said that it’s a nice necklace. I didn’t mean . . . I’ll give Michael his bath.’

He left the room with Michael wriggling in his arms, nearly pulling him off balance as he climbed the stairs. Perhaps there
was something in what Pam said. Maybe his work was taking over every waking moment of his life . . . and his dreams too sometimes.
He had seen it happen so many times – the tunnel vision, the abandonment of family life. He wouldn’t end up like that.

Half an hour later he returned to the living room to find Pam stretched out on the sofa with her arms around a cushion, cuddling
it as a child cuddles a teddy bear for comfort and security.

He knelt down on the floor beside her and took her hand.

‘Sorry for snapping at you,’ she whispered, giving him a weak smile. She opened her mouth to speak then hesitated, as if something
was worrying her.

‘What is it?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Nothing,’ she said quietly. ‘Nothing at all.’

Robin Carrington walked from Old Coastguard Cottage to the Wreckers. He needed a drink. He had meant to pick up some cans
of beer in Tradmouth but events had disrupted his plans and his well-considered shopping list still lay dormant in his pocket.
He would get something to eat at the pub and do some shopping tomorrow. Tradmouth was risky now, so he would try Neston and
hope for the best.

He had been confident that it was all over, that he was in the clear, so the sight of Harry Marchbank had shaken him. Something
must have happened back in London: perhaps they had found new evidence; perhaps he had made a mistake. From the look on Marchbank’s
face when he had seen him in Tradmouth, he knew the truth. But it was doubtful that he would find out where he was staying.
There were still people Robin could trust.

He put his hand up to his head, knowing that his developing headache was caused by tension. Things weren’t going as smoothly
as he would have liked, but surely his luck would change soon. It would take only one stroke of good fortune to turn everything
around. In the meantime, he would concentrate on his work. At least that was going well: he had already traced the Smithers
family to Tradmouth where, according to parish records, they had worked as carpenters for several generations.

But there were times when he needed a break from history, and for the second time that day he found himself thinking about
Brenda Dilkes and the good times they had shared together in the past. She would probably be in the Royal Oak that evening,
and it was a pity that a visit to Tradmouth was out of the question now that Marchbank was about. But even though that particular
avenue of pleasure was closed to him, there couldn’t be any harm in having a quick drink at the Wreckers, well outside the
small fishing port of Millicombe where tourists and yachtsmen gathered. The Wreckers would be safe.

He met nobody on the lane. There was usually someone; the archaeologists or divers. Or those two loud and arrogant young lads
who hung around the beach, helping or hindering. But this evening it was quiet.

Nine o’clock, still light in July. He could see the pub’s roof through the trees. Chadleigh was a tiny hamlet in the shadow
of its thriving neighbour, Millicombe. It was too small to possess its own church and its only pub, the Wreckers, wasn’t Devon’s
prettiest drinking establishment, although a yellowing notice in the bar announced that the place was over three hundred years
old.

As he walked he tried to remember what the notice said. It was something like ‘in the eighteenth century this pub was the
haunt of Chadleigh’s notorious wreckers, who would lure ships onto the treacherous rocks in order to plunder the cargo and
rob the passengers and crew of any valuables’. That was all. No more information for the curious. But he supposed
those few words said it all. Robbery. Mugging on a grand scale. More ambitious than the bastards who had once stolen his
mobile phone in London.

When he reached the pub he stooped to enter the low door to the lounge bar. Once inside, he bought himself a pint of bitter
and placed it on a lonely table.

Then he noticed Neil Watson sitting in the corner, saying goodbye to his two companions, a man with a straggly ponytail and
an attractive blonde woman who were leaving hand in hand. When they had gone, Neil spotted him, picked up his glass and walked
over to his table.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all.’ Robin did his best to sound casual, welcoming. He knew he had to take care but history was a safe subject. ‘Have
you found out anything more about the
Celestina
?’

‘Not really. Only that it belonged to a lady called Mercy Iddacombe. She was a big shipowner and she had a town house in Tradmouth:
Chadleigh Hall was her country estate.’

‘That’s interesting. Do you remember me saying I was tracing the ancestors of an American family called Smithers and I’d found
a connection with the Iddacombes?’

Neil nodded.

‘Well, I looked up the name Iddacombe in the phone book and I found a George Iddacombe whose family lived in Chadleigh Hall
before the war. I rang him and told him about your shipwreck. He said he wouldn’t mind if you contacted him – he might be
able to tell you something about his family’s history.’

‘Why not? It’s a good idea.’

Robin Carrington wrote down the number and address. Even if he had to keep a low profile from now on, there was nothing to
stop Neil doing some detective work for him. A mutually beneficial arrangement.

As Carrington walked back to Old Coastguard Cottage he felt rather pleased with himself. But he was still impatient
for action. He had expected the call to come days ago. And he was beginning to wonder whether it ever would.

Brenda Dilkes could hear Kayleigh’s television up in her bedroom, blaring out the signature tune of
EastEnders
. The television had been Kayleigh’s Christmas present the previous year. She liked Kayleigh to have what all the other kids
had. She didn’t like her going without.

The door bell rang, making Brenda jump. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She walked into the hall slowly, her eyes on the shape
behind the frosted glass in the front door. A tall shape: a man.