Cursed Inheritance (39 page)

Unexpectedly, Jocasta’s face lit up. ‘Yes. Yes, he did. He came to see me.’

‘Did you know he was found dead in the River Trad in Devon?’

Her shock wasn’t feigned, Wesley was certain of that. In fact he doubted whether Jocasta Mylcomb would make a very good liar.

‘No. What happened? Did he drown or … ?’

‘I’m afraid we’re treating his death as suspicious and we’re sure it’s connected in some way to the Harford murders. Were you questioned by the police when Arbel’s family were killed?’ Wesley asked.

Jocasta shook her head and poured another shot of vodka into her glass. ‘No. No, why should 1 be? I didn’t know Arbel’s family.’

Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘You must have been invited to Potwoolstan Hall. ‘

‘No. I was never asked.’

‘But you were her mate. She came to stay with you. Why did she never ask you back?’

Jocasta shrugged. She looked uneasy. ‘I really don’t know. She’d stayed with us in London a few times and 1 remember asking her when 1 could come down and stay with her at the Hall - bit cheeky of me but I was like that in those days.’

‘What did she say?’

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‘She made excuses. And she said 1 wouldn’t like it in Devon. She said I’d find it boring after London.’

‘You live in the countryside now.’

She raised her glass to Wesley. ‘Well spotted. Couldn’t afford London these days.’ There was a long pause. ‘1 bet you’re wondering how come 1 went to school with Arbel bloody Harford and 1 ended up in this dump, aren’t you?’

Wesley glanced at Heffernan but didn’t answer. He had hardly liked to enquire about Jocasta’s social descent. It had seemed like bad manners.

‘My family had a yacht in the South of France and a bloody big house in Hampstead. But my father made some stupid investments and lost the lot. Then he died and, to top it all, my mother went off with a salesman who got through what little money she had left, then promptly went bank-rupt. 1 don’t know where the old bitch is now.’ She took another drink. ‘I married a has-been rock musician when I was twenty-one but that lasted all of five minutes. 1 tried various jobs but … ‘ She made a vague gesture with fluttering hands. ‘Nothing ever worked out. I’m on what is euphemistically known as benefit now.’ She picked up the bottle.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Wesley, hoping the woman wasn’t preparing for a long wallow in self-pity. ‘We were talking about Arbel. You say you were never invited to Potwoolstan Hall?’

‘Maybe that was a good thing.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Arbel said the place was cursed. Some old squire raped and murdered one of the village maidens and the locals cursed him. 1 thought she was making it up but … ‘

‘Did Arbel get on with her family?’

Jocasta frowned, deepening the lines on her face. ‘I don’t think she was ever happy at home. She hated school more though. 1 suppose 1 felt sorry for her. 1 was a soft touch in those days. 1 think being adopted made her insecure. Her brother, Jack, had taken great delight in telling her she was

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a cuckoo in the nest. From what she said, he was a right bastard.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows and looked at Heffernan. From the way Jack Harford had treated people, it was surprising that he’d survived as long as he did.

‘What happened on the evening before Arbel left for Devon?’

Jocasta hesitated. ‘Nothing much to tell. We were invited to this party. I thought Arbel wouldn’t want to stay late because she had to go to Devon the next day. Some sort of party for her mother’s birthday.’

‘Go on.’ Wesley was willing Jocasta to come to the point.

‘My brother Guy had these friends - students from Imperial College. They were having a party. I assumed we’d take a taxi but Arbel said she’d drive so we went in her car. She met someone so I got a taxi home and she ended up staying the night at the party.’

‘That’s not in the reports I’ve seen.’

‘Would you admit to the police that you’d had a quick screw with someone you’d just met at a party? Anyway, someone who looks like a prince through the bottom of a wine glass can often look like a frog the morning after.’

It sounded as if Jocasta spoke from experience. Wesley and Heffernan exchanged glances.

‘So you went home and left her there?’

‘That’s right. She must have gone straight to Devon the next morning.’

‘Did she drink at the party?’

‘Not at first because she expected to be driving. I don’t know what she did after I’d gone, obviously.’

‘What time did you leave?’

Jocasta frowned. ‘It’s so long ago I ,can’t really remember. Must have been around eleven. I had to be up early the next day. I was off to the Cote d’ Azur with. my parents.’

‘Who was the young man Arbel met at the party, do you know?’

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She wrinkled her nose, a sign of concentration. ‘He was dark. Rather good-looking. I think he was studying some sort of science. Physics, something like that.’

‘Well that narrows it down,’ Heffernan muttered.

‘Sorry. I didn’t think to ask to see his passport,’ she snapped. ‘He was just a friend of Guy’s. I didn’t take much notice. ‘

‘Where can we fmd Guy?’

‘Australia.’ She lit a cigarette.

‘Did you tell Patrick Evans about this?’

‘Yes.’ She flicked ash on to the floor impatiently. ‘Look, Arbel spent the night in London and went back to Devon the following morning and found her family dead. Does it really matter whether she was with me or screwing some bloke she’d met at a party? And if it’s so important, why don’t you just ask her? Nobody’s going to bat an eyelid about who Arbel Harford had it off with in 1985.’

Jocasta was absolutely right. Arbel probably hadn’t considered a one-night stand at a party was relevant. And it probably wasn’t.

‘Did Arbel ever mention a gardener called Victor Bleasdale?’

Jocasta shook her head.

‘What about her sister’s fiance, Nigel Armley?’

She stubbed out her cigarette violently on a filthy saucer. ‘The lovely Nigel? She used to keep a photo of him in her locker. I asked her who it was but she would-n’t tell me. But when I saw the pictures of the murder victims in the newspaper, I recognised him. He wasn’t bad-looking. Maybe she felt embarrassed about having a crush on her sister’s fiance. I never met him of course.’ She sounded disappointed.

Jocasta paused, as though she was making a decision. ‘There was something she said once. I think it might be the reason she never wanted me to go to the Hall.’

‘What was that?’

‘She said someone tried to rape her. I think she said he

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was the brother of one of her friends. There was a bit of trouble. ‘

Wesley held his breath. This was something new.

‘Did she mention a name, love?’ Heffernan as~ed quietly.

Jocasta frowned. ‘I can’t remember.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette.

‘Could it have been Dylan Madeley?’

She tilted her head to one side. ‘Dylan,’ she said, testing the name. ‘It could have been.’

Wesley smiled. It looked as if Dylan Madeley was back in the spotlight again.

Jocasta drained her glass and looked at the dog, who was lying at her feet licking his private parts. She stood up, steadying herself on the back of the chair.

‘You OK, love?’ Heffernan asked as he stood.

‘Course I am.’ The answer was slurred and she looked from one policeman to the other with distant eyes.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about your meeting with Patrick Evans?’

She froze for a couple of seconds. Then she raised a shaky hand. ‘I showed him the photos. Hang on. Stay, Rascal.’

The dog watched her stumble from the room with mourn-ful eyes, as though he was well aware of the state his mistress had got herself into.Wesley and Heffernan sat quite still until Jocasta shambled back carrying a gaudy box that had once held Christmas cards. She handed it to Heffernan. ‘I showed him these. He took one with him. Plenty’left though.’

Heffernan lifted the lid. Inside the box lay a pile of snaps. He flicked through them. ‘Which ones was Evans interested in, love?’

Jocasta took the box from him and clumsily selected four pictures, dropping a couple on to. the threadbare carpet in the process. ‘These were taken at the party I was telling you about.’

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Wesley took the pictures. A group of laughing young people with drinks in their hands. He recognised Arhel and a younger, healthier, happier Jocasta. A dark-haired boy had his arm around Arbel’s shoulder with a smug smile that suggested he realised his luck was in. Wesley turned the picture over. There were names scrawled on the back. Jo. Arbel. Greg. Steve. Sue. OIly. He looked up at Jocasta and experienced a twinge of sadness that the laughing girl had become a bitter woman with little reason to laugh any more. And that this was probably the last image of Arbel Harford before her life was blighted for ever by tragedy.

‘You say you gave Patrick Evans a similar picture?’

Jocasta grunted as though she was now impatient for them to go. ‘You take it. Help yourself. Take them all if you like.’

‘Thank you,’ Wesley said.

She frowned. ‘I wrote to him, you know. I promised that Patrick I’d ask him … ‘

Wesley looked at her, puzzled. ‘Ask who what?’

‘Guy, of course. My loving brother down under. I wrote to him to ask him if he remembered the boy Arbel was with. Greg, was it?’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. ‘And did Guy remember?’

‘Hasn’t replied yet.’

‘Can you let us know if he does?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

Wesley handed her his card. ‘Ring me. Please.’

She hesitated for a moment. ‘OK.’

As they left, Wesley thanked her. But she didn’t reply before shutting the door in his face.

‘Sad,’ was Gerry Heffernan’s only comment.

‘At least we know where to find Dylan Madeley,’ said Wesley.

‘Forgot to tell you, Wes. He’s been released on condition he stays at the bail hostel in Morbay.’

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Wesley dropped Gerry off at Tradmouth police station before driving to Morbay.

The communal room of the bail hostel stank of smoke and sweat. The hostel itself was a rambling, run-down Victorian house in one of Morbay’s direst streets, not far from Jack Wright’s jeweller’S shop. The stucco on the facade was flaking like diseased flesh, and threadbare curtains hung limply at the grubby windows. It was a place of last resort. A place where hope was in short supply.

Wesley stared at Dylan Madeley with distaste. Madeley stared back for a while then began to chew his nails. Wesley found this irritating. He placed both his hands on his knees and took a deep breath.

‘You’ll be going to your sister’s funeral?’

Dylan nodded.

After a few seconds of silence, Wesley spoke again. ‘Do you remember much about Nigel Armley, Catriona Harford’s fiance?’

‘Not much.’

‘Your sister was having an affair with him.’

Dylan looked up. ‘No. You’re wrong.’

‘She painted him.’

‘She painted a lot of people. That’s what she did.’

‘Armley wore a signet ring on his right hand. Can you remember which finger he wore it on?’

Dylan looked at Wesley as though he was mad and shook his head.

‘In the photograph that was taken of Armley’s body, he was wearing the ring on his little finger and in a picture your sister painted he was wearing it on his middle finger.’ He produced the two images from his briefcase. ‘She’d hardly have got something like that wrong.’

‘How should I know?’

Wesley put the pictures away carefully. ‘Arbel Harford tells me that Gwen had affairs with both Armley and the gardener, Bleasdale.’

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Dylan gave an unexpected snort of derision. Then he leaned across the stained coffee table, disturbing a few cigarette butts in the overflowing ashtray, and put his face close to Wesley’s. Wesley could smell the sour odour of Dylan’s breath and he felt the urge to back away. But he stopped himself.

‘Arbel Harford told a friend of hers that you tried to rape her.’

Dylan Madeley rose, sending his chair spinning to the ground with a crash. ‘That’s a fucking lie. I never touched her.’

Dylan Madeley’s eyes bulged with fury and the veins on his neck stood out against the grey flesh. He brought his tightly clenched fish down on the nearest wall. Wesley felt uneasy. Perhaps he should have brought back-up.

Suddenly, Madeley picked up his chair and sat down heavily. ‘You want the truth. I’ll tell you the fucking truth.’

‘OK,’ Wesley said calmly. ‘I’m listening.’

Wesley listened carefully. And when he left the hostel, he felt more confused than ever.

Gerry Heffernan was sitting in his office chewing the end of his pen when Wesley returned.

‘How was Dylan Madeley? Uncomfortable, I hope.’

Wesley didn’t answer. ‘Did I hear that Brenda Varney and Richard Gibbons are out on bail?’

‘Yeah. Brenda’s staying with a cousin in Whitely - or at least that’s what she told the powers that be. Gibbons has gone home to his dear old mum, which is probably punish-ment enough for anyone.’

Wesley looked out into the main office. Rachel was sorting through reports. She looked as if she needed a break. ‘I’ll ask Rachel to go and see Brenda. There’s something I need to know.’

Heffernan looked puzzled.

‘I’m going to have another word with Emma Oldchester. Want to come? I’ll tell you what Dylan said on the way.’

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Gerry Heffernan looked at his paperwork and stood up. He didn’t need asking twice.

Jeremy Elsham twisted the gold signet ring on the middle finger of his right hand round and round; a nervous habit that he’d had for years. He looked Emma Oldchester in the eye.

‘That’s my final answer. I won’t do it. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll go home.’

Emma stared at him.

‘This obsession isn’t healthy, Emma,’ Elsham avoided her eyes. ‘You have to move on.’

‘But they said my mother killed all those people and I know she didn’t do it,’ she said slowly, as though she was speaking to a rather dim child, her fists clenched with frustration.