The Shining Skull (21 page)

Carol looked at the headlines of the paper he was reading – a red-topped tabloid with a naked woman on the front. ‘Leah murdered.’
That said it all. The poor girl’s fame and money couldn’t save her. It only took one act of evil to put an end to it all.

She cleared her throat. ‘So what are your plans, Mark?’ She couldn’t bring herself to call him Marcus yet, in spite of the
DNA test results.

He looked up from his paper. ‘Dunno yet.’ His accent – his slovenly way of speaking as she saw it – put Carol’s teeth on edge.

‘Won’t you have to go back to Manchester? There’s your job. And what about your girlfriend?’

‘Yeah, right.’The words irritated Carol but she tried not to show it.

‘I’ll have to go back up soon to sort things out . . . maybe bring
Sharon down.’ He hesitated, looking Carol in the eye. ‘I’m thinking of moving down here for good. Did Adrian tell you?’

‘No, he didn’t. What will you do? Where will you live?’

Marcus raised his eyebrows. ‘Adrian said I could stop here till I’ve found somewhere.’

It took all Carol’s self control to confine herself to polite ‘Did he?’

The ringing of the doorbell saved her from saying something that might be reported back to Adrian by his precious long-lost
brother and held against her. She hurried out into the hallway, seething with resentment. Why hadn’t she been consulted before
her husband installed this cuckoo in her well appointed nest?

And the sight of two policemen standing on her doorstep did nothing to improve her mood.

She had met the pair before – the scruffy Liverpudlian DCI and his rather good looking, well-spoken black inspector. They
seemed pleasant enough but police were police. After confirming that Marcus was indeed at home, she invited them in and her
offer of a cup of tea was accepted with appropriate gratitude.

Carol was determined to stay and hear what Marcus had to say for himself. Once the tea was made and brought it, her natural
curiosity made her resume the seat she had vacated. It was her house after all.

It was Marcus who spoke first. ‘I rang that lady last night . . . Mrs Tranter. I’m going over to Tradmouth to see her later.’

‘Good,’ said Wesley.

‘She’ll be able to tell me about my mum. I feel I never knew her.’

Wesley made sympathetic noises but he was anxious to change the subject. Marcus’s psychological need to discover his roots
could wait till another time.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve remembered any more about your abduction?’ Wesley asked tentatively. ‘We’re on our way to talk to
Jenny Booker’s parents.’ He watched the man’s face, looking for a reaction, but he saw none. ‘We’d really like to find out
more about Gordon Heather, Jenny’s boyfriend.’

‘Am I going to see that doctor . . . the shrink?’

‘We’re trying to arrange an appointment. We’ll let you know when . . . ’

‘I’m starting to remember more, you know. Now I’m here
things keep coming back. I remember something about a picnic. Jenny was there . . . and her boyfriend. I remember being in
this shed place. I couldn’t get out and I was crying.’

Wesley and Heffernan looked at each other. It looked as if they’d hit the jackpot. ‘Go on,’ Wesley said quietly, not wanting
to interrupt the flow.

‘I just remember being scared. I was on my own and it was dark and I was really scared.’

‘Was it Jenny’s boyfriend who left you there?’

‘Yeah, I think so. I remember Jenny with this big man and . . . It must have been him, mustn’t it?’

‘You’re doing well,’ said Gerry Heffernan. ‘Think hard. Is there anything else?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘Bits keep coming back . . . sounds and smells. But . . . ’

Carol frowned. ‘What about your parents? Didn’t you ever want to find them? Why didn’t you try and find out about your background
sooner?’

‘I didn’t remember my parents much. I don’t think I had much to do with them. I remember Jenny better . . . ’ He swallowed
as if he was choking back tears. ‘But she left me – maybe that’s what hurt – maybe that’s why I blotted it out. It’s only
the accident and coming here that’s brought it all back and made me want to find out who I really was.’

‘We’ve been wondering about the travellers who found you. What can you remember about them?’

‘Not much. I remember Carrie. And going to Aunty Lynne’s . . . I remember that.’ There was something in the tone of his voice
that suggested his memories of Carrie were more pleasant than those of Aunty Lynne.

‘Did you ever ask Aunty Lynne about Carrie and how you got there?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘Yeah but she’d never talk about it. Just said “least said soonest mended”. That’s what she always
used to say . . . “least said, soonest mended.’’’

Wesley stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Fallbrook. You’ve been very helpful.’

Marcus looked up at him, his eyes anxious. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go back to Manchester sooner or later to sort things
out. Then I’m moving down here for good.’ He glanced at Carol.
‘Blood’s thicker than water, ain’t it? Do you want me to give a statement now or what?’

Heffernan shook his head. ‘From what you’ve told us, we really need to trace this Gordon Heather . . . Jenny’s boyfriend.
He’s been seen in this area recently and I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm to tell you that we’d like to question him about
the abduction and murder of Leah Wakefield.’

Marcus looked shocked. ‘You think he did that?’

‘Do you remember him being violent at all?’

Marcus frowned. ‘I just know I was scared of him. Maybe it was Jenny who protected me. Maybe he didn’t dare do anything while
she was around.’ He hesitated. ‘I dunno . . . wish I did.’

Wesley thought here was something pathetic in the way he clung to Jenny’s memory. She must have been the one stable thing
in his early childhood and she had probably betrayed him for an unsuitable man.

Marcus’s eyes widened, as though a disturbing memory had just flashed into his head. ‘He had a knife. He used to clean his
nails with it.’

Wesley stood up. ‘Look, if you remember anything else that might help us – anything at all – please get in touch. You have
my number, don’t you?’

Marcus nodded.

Carol Fallbrook waited until the two policemen were out of the house before speaking. ‘You did well to remember all that,’
she said

Marcus detected the hostility in her voice. He shook his head, hurt and puzzled. Then he looked her in the eye. ‘I went through
Hell and now I’m home. Right?’

He started to make for the door. ‘I’m going to see that old girl who knew my mum . . . that Mrs Tranter. At least she wants
to see me. At least she sounded pleased that I’ve come back.’

Carol ignored him and began to clear away the teacups.

Neil Watson had had business in Exeter that morning – a tedious meeting with the planning authority. He had once heard someone
describe British archaeology as Indiana Jones and the Local Planning Department – he had laughed at the time but he guessed
that this description wasn’t so very far from the truth.

As he was in Exeter, he seized the chance to return to his flat for
an hour or so, pick up his post and e-mails and grab something to eat.

Switching on the computer had probably been a mistake. There were no e-mails of note, just the usual crop of spam to be deleted,
and he soon found himself logging on to the Internet.

His first port of call was the website of the Disciples of the Blessed Joan. As he read, he scratched his head. It was weird
– especially the bit about the woman in California who claimed to be Joan Shiner’s reincarnation.

After a while he widened his search. There seemed to be a lot on the Internet about strange religious sects that had sprung
up in the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, usually around some self-appointed prophet – or in Joan Shiner’s
case prophetess – who claimed to have a private hot line to the Almighty. Most had severe, Old Testament overtones: one man
up near Manchester claimed to be a prophet who required the assistance of several virgins. It was a pity, Neil thought, that
archaeologists couldn’t plead the same bizarre necessities – if they did they’d probably be locked up.

He switched off his computer and turned to his notebook. Cracking the coded messages on the walls of the Bentham Arms attic
room had been easy. He had discovered at a very early stage that the small pictures represented their initial letters. B for
boat. A for apple. J for jackdaw. The more difficult letters like x and z were used as normal. The website of the Disciples
of the Blessed Joan claimed that she had devised the ‘sacred writing’ herself. If this was true, she was no mistress of the
art of encryption. A child could have done it.

And once the code was broken, the sayings proved disappointingly banal. A smattering of paraphrased biblical misquotations
interspersed with what were probably Joan’s own pearls of wisdom. ‘The Shining Babe Shall Come’, seemed to be a particular
favourite. And ‘Blessed is she who gives her tresses to the Shining Babe.’ But the Shining Babe, by all accounts, had never
arrived. The whole affair had ended in tragedy and disappointment.

The thing that surprised Neil most was that there seemed to be such interest in the failed prophetess today. There were those
on the website who claimed they were still waiting for the Shining Babe’s appearance, not in Devon this time but in the kinder
climate of America’s west coast. There were several mentions of
the seven secrets, whatever they were. Neil doubted if he’d ever get to find out. The Reverend Charles Boden, the Rector
of Stoke Beeching who had so vehemently opposed the Blessed Joan’s brand of hocus-pocus, must have been a frustrated man.

Beside Neil’s notebook lay the letters Lionel Grooby had lent him and, even though he was in a hurry, the temptation proved
too great. He unfolded the first letter, careful not to tear the brittle paper, and began to read.

The correspondence was rather jumbled – there were copies of letters Juanita Bentham had sent to a lady in Brighton as well
as various letters received by the Bentham family. Neil took particular interest in the correspondence between Sir John Bentham
and the Rector, Charles Boden. Peter Hackworthy, the Amazing Devon Marvel, was mentioned a great deal and Neil wondered what
had become of the boy. It was possible, of course, that the Rector had got his way and the boy had gone to Oxford, shaken
off his humble origins and his grasping family and lived a long, peaceful and scholarly life before being buried in St Merion’s
churchyard with the rest of his family. Or had he ended up staying in Stoke Beeching and living in obscurity, his early promise
stunted by his family’s demands? He would have to find out.

In the meantime he’d keep digging.

The man hunt was on. Teddy Afleck had seen Gordon Heather in Neston which meant that he might still be in the area. If he
had kidnapped little Marcus Fallbrook all those years ago and collected a ransom of fifteen thousand pounds, it was possible
that he’d come back for another try with Leah Wakefield – another pay day, bigger this time. And Gerry Heffernan wanted him
found.

The trouble was that Heather didn’t have a criminal record – not under his own name at least. There was no picture of him
apart from the rather poor image on the back row of some long-forgotten local football team. But the police were working on
it; checking on hotels, guesthouses and caravan parks; examining the electoral register in case he’d been living locally for
a while without their knowledge. Gordon Heather had to be somewhere. It was only a matter of time before they found him.

Gerry Heffernan had told Rachel Tracey to take the afternoon off – to get her head down and grab some rest after all those
hours she’d spent nursemaiding the Wakefields. But she had come into
work, pleading boredom, saying she’d rather be at work doing something useful than staring at the walls of her rented cottage.
Wesley suspected that she wasn’t comfortable on her own, having been used to living on a farm all her life surrounded by a
large family.

The phone on Wesley’s desk rang and a female voice on the other end of the line said a cautious hello and introduced herself
as Linda Tranter. They’d met the other day.

Once Wesley had assured her that he remembered her, she began to sound more confident. ‘I’ve just had a visit from Marcus
Fallbrook,’she said. ‘It was lovely to see him. He’s so like his father but I can see Anna in him as well. I’m just ringing
to . . . ’ She gave a small girlish giggle. ‘I don’t know why I’m ringing really . . . probably just to thank you for putting
us in touch with each other. Anna was very dear to me, you know. And to have her son back . . . Well, it’s like a link with
her, I suppose. Something nice after all that tragedy that’s dogged the Fallbrooks over the years. The poor boy’s had a hard
life – oh, I’m calling him a boy but he’s a middle-aged man. It’ll take him some time to get used to our ways and . . . ’

She continued in that vein for some time and Wesley listened politely to the flow of words until Linda Tranter paused to take
a breath and he had the chance to interrupt.

‘I don’t suppose Marcus said anything to you about his abduction?’

‘He said he didn’t remember much and he was more interested in hearing about his mother, but that’s only natural. Poor boy.’
It was obvious that Linda Tranter was taken with the idea of her old friend’s lost child returning to life. A happy ending
at last to a tragic story.

Eventually Wesley, at his most tactful, managed to end the call. Della’s old colleague was full of her meeting with Anna’s
lost son and, living alone, she had wanted to share her elation with someone. And that someone had been him.

He had just begun to go through the transcripts of the kidnapper’s phone calls to the Wakefields when Rachel walked over to
his desk and perched on the edge. He looked up and smiled. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

She picked a pen off Wesley’s desk and played with it absent-mindedly. ‘OK. I understand you and the boss are going off to
see Jenny Booker’s family soon.’