Cursed Inheritance (18 page)

Wesley looked him in the eye. ‘So Patrick Evans was writing about the Potwoolstan Hall case and, 10 and behold, you turn up at Potwoolstan Hall. Why?’

Jameston turned towards the window and threw his smouldering cigarette end outside. Then he turned back to face Wesley. ‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure recently. I don’t want to go into details. I just needed to get away. Somewhere discreet. That’s why I hit on the idea of using an alias. I needed my privacy.’

‘And you’re a fan of Lewis Carroll?’

‘Ten out of ten, Inspector. Didn’t think anybody would twig. ‘

‘You didn’t answer my question. There are a lot of exclusive health farms and clinics around. Why Potwoolstan Hall?’

‘I’d heard the place had become a healing centre and after talking to Patrick Evans … Well, I suppose my curiosity got the better of me.’

‘Did your wife know you were coming here?’

‘No. I told her I was staying at a health spa in Hertfordshire. I saw no reason to upset her. But I’ve confessed all now. Didn’t want her finding out from the papers. She took it very well, actually. I suppose I should have left when the police started sniffmg around when that

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silly woman had her money stolen.’ He sighed. ‘I came here for peace and quiet. ‘

‘And because you were curious about the Hall.’

‘That too.’

‘Any other reason? Serena Jones told one of my officers that you had a private meeting with one of the staff here in the grounds.’

Jameston walked slowly back to his chair and sat down. ‘If I could get my hands on that Serena Jones I’d cheerfully strangle her - and don’t go writing that down.’ He looked straight at Darren Wentworth, who was sitting, notebook in hand, waiting to note down the pertinent points of the interview. ‘I thought she was a hard-faced little minx when she was staying here. I should have guessed what she was up to. But she’s got it all wrong. Gwen Madeley is an old childhood friend of my wife’s. I met her years ago when she called to see Arbel in London and she recognised me at once. I had no idea she worked here and I thought I ought to have a word with her in private away from the Hall. I wanted to make sure I could count on her discretion. ‘

‘What does this Gwen Madeley do here?’

‘She’s an art therapist. Not that I’ve tried it myself. Can’t draw a straight line. Gwen’s known Arbel since they were children. They were inseparable until Arbel went away to school and they saw a lot of each other in the school holidays. In fact Arbel went to stay with Gwen’s family after the tragedy.’

‘Did Gwen say if Evans had been in touch with her?’

‘As a matter of fact he did call round to see her but she wasn’t able to tell him much.’

‘You do know that Evans was murdered in the grounds of this Hall, down by the river?’

‘Yes. I was questioned by a young constable a couple of days ago and I’m not changing my story.’

‘But you didn’t mention in your statement that you’d met the dead man?’

‘I was only asked if I’d seen or heard anything suspicious

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on a particular night. 1 hadn’t. 1 told the truth.’

It was a real politician’s answer. And Wesley was reluctant to let him get away with it. ‘But you didn’t tell the whole truth.’

‘Look, Inspector, 1 met Patrick Evans a few weeks ago in a pub in London and I’ve not seen or heard from him since.’ He looked Wesley in the eye. ‘I can’t prove that, of course. How can you prove a negative? But I swear to you, it’s true.’

Suddenly Wesley found himself believing every word. But then he asked himself why. This man was obviously a consummate actor. And possibly a consummate liar. And yet his instinct told him that he was telling the truth.

‘What are your immediate plans?’ Wesley asked.

Jameston took the cigarette packet out of his pocket again and played with it, opening and closing the lid, taking a cigarette out then putting it back again, as though trying to fight temptation. ‘Arbel said she might come down here; maybe stay with Gwen. The press soon latched on to her connection with.the massacre case and when I spoke to her on the phone this morning she said she’s been pestered by journalists. I offered to drive straight back but she said she wants to get away from London.’

‘Gwen Madeley … ‘

‘What about her?’ he snapped, suddenly defensive. Perhaps they were more than old acquaintances after all.

‘If we can have her address.’

Jameston hesitated. ‘I believe she has a cottage near here but I’ve never been there so I can’t tell you the address. Surely Elsham will have it.’

‘She’s not here today by any chance?’ Wesley asked, hoping he’d be saved a journey.

‘I haven’t seen her. If that’s all, Inspector … ‘

Wesley knew when he was being dismissed. No doubt on the way back to Tradmouth a dozen more vital questions to ask Anthony Jameston would pop into his head, but now he couldn’t think of any more. He watched as Jameston left the

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conservatory, wondering whether he had been hiding anything. Probably. Most people he interviewed had something, perhaps something quite innocent or irrelevant, that they’d rather the police didn’t know about.

He looked at Darren Wentworth, who was sitting awkwardly on the edge of the flimsy wicker chair. ‘Gwen Madeley next, I think.’

Wentworth said nothing. He followed Wesley out of the conservatory. When they reached the entrance hall they were met by leremy Elsham. There were dark rings beneath his eyes and the lines on his face, hardly visible before, were now deep furrows. The facilitator was feeling the strain.

‘Is there any news on the theft, Inspector? Mrs leffries is talking about legal action and … ‘

Wesley put on his smoothest smile. ‘I’m sure it won’t be long now till we have sufficient evidence to make an arrest.’ It was always best to sound confident, even when you had no idea where the next arrest was coming from. Elsham provided Gwen Madeley’s address without comment and, as they left, Wesley wondered why he seemed so worried. Was it the theft, the discovery that Patrick Evans had died on his land or the recent press intrusion? Or was it something else entirely?

As they drove out, the more intrepid reporters thrust their faces against their car windows and some even made a futile attempt to run after their car. At least, thought Wesley, it would give them some exercise. Some of them looked as if they needed it.

‘Now we know what it must be like to be a film star pursued by the paparazzi,’ Wesley said, trying to lighten the mood. Darren Wentworth, sitting in the driver’s seat, didn’t smile.

Gwen Madeley’s cottage was easy to find. But when they arrived there was no sign of life.

He put Gwen Madeley on his mental list of people to visit and told Wentworth to head back to the station.

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Emma Oldchester watched from the landing as the two policemen left, hidden by the banisters, just as she had stood so often as a little girl. She wondered what they were doing there. Was it something to do with all those reporters outside? Something to do with that sleek, rather pompous man who called himself Dodgson? Or maybe they had come about her?

She had pleaded with Jeremy to regress her again but he had spoken smoothly about her not being a suitable subject. He had been afraid, she could sense it. And he had tried to fob her off with offers of massages and meditation sessions. But that wasn’t why she was here. She had to know the truth about what had happened when she was seven: the truth she had erased from her memory.

As she stared down into the hall someone emerged from the door of the Beings therapy room on the right. Emma crouched down behind the banisters, hoping she wouldn’t be seen.

The woman’s face was so familiar. She had aged considerably, of course. And the hair was completely different. But-she recognised the snub nose and the” small, watchful pale blue eyes.

But was it really her? And if it was, why had she returned to Potwoolstan Hall?

Rachel Tracey slammed a copy of the local paper down on Wesley’s desk. Her cheeks were flushed with righteous anger. ‘Have you seen this?’

Wesley picked the paper up and read the headline. ‘Police clueless.’ He sighed and began to read the story beneath. ‘A source close to Tradmouth CID revealed yesterday that the police are baffled by the death of author Patrick Evans whose body was found in the River Trad a few days ago.’

Wesley looked at Rachel. ‘What do they mean by “a source close to Tradmouth CID?” What source?’ He looked at the name at the end of the article. ‘Serena Jones again.

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Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’

He marched to Gerry Heffernan’s office, holding the paper out in front of him as though it was something dirty. He handed it to the chief inspector without a word and watched as he read. Wesley had expected a rise in the boss’s blood pressure accompanied by a stream of colourful naval oaths but instead Heffernan just handed the paper back to Wesley with a sigh.

‘Well, you can’t fault it for accuracy, can you? It’s true, Wes, we’re nowhere near making an arrest. There’s been no luck with local restaurants: Evans didn’t eat lobster or anything else for that matter in any of them on the night he died. Nobody at the Tradmouth Castle saw anyone even remotely suspicious near his room.’ He turned the cheap biro he was holding over and over in his fingers. ‘Mind you, this headline could work in our favour.’

‘How do you work that one out?’

‘This could lull his killer into a false sense of security. Make him careless. If he thinks he’s running rings round us then he might start making mistakes.’

Wesley gave a weak smile. ‘You do realise who this “source close to Tradmouth CID” is, don’t you?’

Heffeman grinned. ‘Shall I have a word with our DC Carstairs? Tell him I’m going to roast his balls over a slow fire? Or worse still get him to sit in on one of the chief super’s budget strategy meetings?’

‘I think a lecture on keeping your mouth shut will suffice. He was probably trying to impress Ms Serena Jones with his inside knowledge.’

‘What inside knowledge?’

‘Precisely. I’ll send him in, shall I?’

Heffeman nodded. ‘How’s it going?’

‘My trip to Potwoolstan Hall with Darren Wentworth proved quite fruitful. I confirmed that Anthony Jameston MP - alias Charles Dodgson - is married to Arbel Harford, the girl whose family were murdered at the Hall back in

1985.’

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‘Go on.’

‘Patrick Evans made contact with Jameston and they met in London. Jameston was determined not to involve Arhel. He didn’t want to upset her, which is understandable. An old friend of Arbel’s works at the Hall, an artist called Owen Madeley. Jameston met her in the grounds to ask if he could count on her discretion, so he says. We haven’t managed to see her yet but Jameston claims that Evans spoke to her - says she told him nothing. He swears he hasn’t seen Evans since London and that he knows nothing about his death. ‘

‘Believe him?’

‘I did when he said it,’ Wesley replied. ‘I want to see what this Owen Madeley has to say. It looks as if Evans was thorough. So, if Martha Wallace didn’t kill the Harfords and Evans was getting close to fmding out who did, we’ve got our motive. Whoever killed the Harfords killed Evans.’

Heffeman scratched his head. ‘You’ve had a look at the Harford files. Any thoughts yet?’

‘A few. But it would help if we knew where Evans’s researches were taking him.’ Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a call to make.’

He walked back to his desk and picked up the phone. Kirsty Evans had provided the number of Patrick’s publishers. But when Wesley got through he was told that his editor was away at a book fair. He left his number and told himself that he would just have to be patient.

He heard a shuffling behind him and looked round. Darren Wentworth was standing there, looking at him expectantly. ‘Did you say we were going to visit that Owen Madeley, sir?’

Wesley looked at his watch. He wanted to study the files on the massacre again and see if there was anything obvious he’d missed. ‘First thing tomorrow, Darren.’

A couple of hours later Wesley was no wiser. He felt overwhelmed by the details in the files: the players that

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were names without faces. It was six thirty when he left the office.

As soon as he arrived home, the front door opened to reveal Pam framed in the doorway with Amelia in her arms, striking a Madonna and Child pose for a second until Michael came dashing out from behind her, hurtled down the drive and hurled himself into Wesley’s arms, chattering.

Wesley hauled the child upwards until he was sitting on his shoulders and walked into the house.

Pam smiled. ‘Twenty to seven … you’re early tonight.’

Wesley detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice. ‘Anything to report?’ He hoped she’d have something to tell him that would take his mind off police work for a couple of hours.

‘We’ve had yet another email from Neil.’

Wesley followed her into the kitchen with Michael still on his shoulders, hitting the top of his head and urging him to move faster. He swung the child to the floor but Michael started to complain, clinging to his legs. Pam handed Amelia to him while she turned on the heat under a pan.

‘What did he say?’ he asked, trying to keep hold of the wriggling baby.

‘See for yourself. I’ve printed it out. It’s in the living room … unless Amelia’ s eaten it or Michael’s scribbled all over it.’

It wasn’t until after they’d eaten and put the children to bed that Wesley finally managed to find his way into the living room and sit down. He looked at his watch. It was eight thirty. He glanced at the telephone, praying it wouldn’t ring that evening, that the station would leave him alone, before picking up Neil’s email from the coffee table. He started to read.

‘Hi Pam and Wes,’ it began. ‘Things are fine over here. Weather beautiful and scenery likewise. The dig is going well. I told you about the skeletons they found, didn’t I? Both died the same way, musket ball through the head. I think I told you they