The Shining Skull (4 page)

As soon as she disappeared from sight, he shuffled over to the table which stood next to the computer desk. He had laid out
his trophies carefully, having tied the ends with white ribbon neatly – with love – and the hair lay in skeins like newly
spun flax. He picked each one up carefully and put them back in their special box. Velvet lined. The best.

He would go to the lock up garage later and take the car out. Tonight he might get lucky again.

Pam Peterson put the local newspaper down on the coffee table. With this Barber about, for the first time in her life she
was glad she wasn’t blond.

She thought of her husband’s colleague, Rachel Tracey – the woman who saw far more of him than she did – and couldn’t resist
a wicked smile. Rachel was just the Barber’s type, she thought before telling herself that jealousy wasn’t an attractive quality.
And since her ill-advised little fling in the early summer, she had let the moral high ground slip from her grasp.

She remembered it now with a shudder of bitter embarrassment. Flirting with Wesley’s future brother-in-law’s old schoolfriend,
Jonathan, who’d come up for the wedding, had seemed like a great idea at the time – a respite from work, motherhood and a
husband whose job seemed more important to him than she did. A bit of harmless fun that lifted her spirits and made her feel
attractive again. And what woman doesn’t want to feel desirable? But things had gone too far; had slipped from her control
like a kite in a hurricane.

Then Neil Watson had caught them together and in that heart-shrinking moment of guilt and regret she had suddenly seen things
clearly. Jonathan was shallow and maybe a touch amoral. A purely temporary temptation. She realised then what she could lose
and from that time on she’d tried her best to make amends. To be patient and understanding. And not to complain about the
hours Wesley spent at work. But it wasn’t always easy.

As soon as she heard Wesley’s key in the door, she rushed into the hall to greet him, making an effort. He stepped into the
house, bending to kiss her. ‘How are things? School OK?’

‘As well as can be expected with an inspection in a couple of weeks. And my class isn’t the easiest I’ve had. I’ve got four
kids with special needs. And some of my year six girls are right little
madams – doing those Leah Wakefield dance routines in the playground. If they put as much effort into their work as . . .
’

‘Leah Wakefield?’ Wesley made a point of not keeping abreast of popular culture.

‘She’s that tarty teenage singer who writhes about showing all she’s got – hardly a suitable role model for eleven-year-olds.’

Wesley gave her what he considered to be a sympathetic smile, hoping that fashions would change by the time Amelia reached
that age. ‘Kids OK?’

‘They’ll be glad you’re back before their bed time for a change,’ she said, then immediately regretted her sharpness.

‘I’ll make the supper if you like,’ said Wesley with just a hint of martyrdom.

‘Already done. It’ll be ready in five minutes.’

Wesley kissed his wife again before making for the living room to entertain his children who greeted him enthusiastically
– almost as though he’d been away for months.

It wasn’t until the supper had been eaten and the children tucked up in bed that Wesley made his dreadful confession with
the wary guilt of a man confessing to an affair. He would have to go the Bentham Arms for an hour or so to talk to a retired
DCI about the Fallbrook kidnapping case but he’d be back as soon as he could. By the time he’d finished his speech, he was
aware that he was grovelling like some Victorian servant. But he felt a little grovelling was just what was called for.

He found himself promising that he would find ex-DCI Houldsworth, arrange a meeting at a more congenial time and come straight
home. It would only take half an hour. No problem.

‘You’re not bloody drinking again. Give that to me.’ Leah Wakefield’s mother snatched the bottle of champagne from her daughter’s
hands and marched off into the kitchen as the bubble-filled girl sprawled on the white leather sofa emitted a loud burp.

Suzy Wakefield, being naturally thrifty due to an upbringing in which money was in short supply and luxuries like champagne
as rare as snow in the Sahara, put a stopper in the champagne bottle and stood it up carefully in the door of the massive
American style fridge.

As the fridge door closed with a discreet whisper of rubber meeting rubber, Suzy heard footsteps behind her on the slate
floor. She swung round and saw Leah standing there, swaying slightly and reaching for the nearest granite worktop to steady
herself.

‘Give me that bottle, you old cow.’ Leah’s words were slurred. ‘You’ve no right . . . ’

‘I’ve every right. It’s not good for you all this drinking.’ She had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘It’s not good for your
voice . . . your career . . . ’

‘Fuck my career. I want a fucking drink. You’re treating me like some fucking kid. I’ve got a platinum fucking disc.’

Suzy took a step back as the girl came towards her. ‘And if you carry on like this you’ll end up in the gutter.’

Leah stopped in her tracks and a malicious smile spread across her painted lips. ‘Well, you’d know all about the gutter. That’s
where you belong, you old slag. That’s why Dad left you.’

It was an automatic reaction. Suzy raised her right hand and slapped her daughter across the face, the sound echoing like
a gunshot off the tiled walls.

Leah held her cheek, half bent in theatrical agony, her eyes ablaze with spite. ‘You’ll regret that, you jealous old bitch.
If you think you’re getting one more penny of my money . . . And you can get out of this house. My house. It was bought with
my money. The money I earned.’

Suzy squared up to her, more confident now. ‘Until you’re twenty-one everything needs my signature . . . and your Dad’s. You
can’t do anything without my say so.’

She looked the girl in the eye. Her daughter. The little girl she’d taken to singing and dancing lessons in spite of her husband,
Darren – now her ex-husband – telling her it was a waste of their hard-earned money. The little girl she’d pushed and encouraged.
The little girl on whose behalf she’d even slept with men of influence to make the right connections in the business. The
little girl for whom she’d sacrificed her dignity and her marriage so that she could reach the top.

Her combination of fierce maternal love and overarching ambition had been a potent one. But now it had turned sour. She had
created a monster. One look at Leah’s sneering face, at her glazed, drunken eyes, told her that. She felt warm tears trickle
down her cheeks.

‘I’m calling Brad.’

Leah laughed. ‘My wonderful bloody manager. Good in bed, is he?’

Suzy ignored the last question. ‘He should know what you’re doing to yourself . . . How you’re throwing away everything we’ve
worked for . . . ’

Leah stared at her mother and drew herself up to her full height. Suddenly she seemed to have sobered up. ‘Everything you’ve
worked for, you mean.’ She turned unsteadily on her stiletto heels. ‘I’m out of here. I can’t stand this any more.’

‘Where are you going?’ Suzy asked, trying hard to keep the nascent hysteria she was feeling out of her voice. She had to
stay calm. It was the only way to deal with the situation. ‘You’ve got to understand, Leah. I’m only thinking of you.’

The generous lips that had smiled out from the covers of Leah Wakefield’s four best-selling albums, formed a snarl as she
turned back to face her mother. ‘I’m going.’ She tossed her mane of blond hair. ‘I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.’

‘But there’s that magazine interview coming up. You’ll have to . . . ’

‘I haven’t got to do anything. Tell them I’m not well.’ She span round. ‘Tell them I’m dead.’

She marched out of the kitchen without looking back.

The man driving the dark-blue minicab pulled his woolly hat down so that his bearded face was in shadow. The registration
number had been changed again. That was good. And he had the peel-off logos in the glove box ready. He was prepared and there
was no way anybody would be able to track him down. No way anybody could halt his mission.

He listened to the radio, crackling on the dashboard. He knew their voices by now, the men and women in the control rooms:
he had started to think of them almost as friends as he listened to their banter and their feeble jokes.

He slouched back in his seat. Some nights he had no luck and it looked as if this would be one of them. Then suddenly everything
changed. A name. Female. Could Eddie pick her up and she wanted to go into Morbay.

The man’s heart started to pound as he started the engine. He had the equipment in the glove box. Everything was ready . .
. if she was what he was looking for.

* * *

Leah Wakefield knew that she was in no fit state to drive. Although a drink-driving charge on top of everything else hardly
seemed an alarming prospect at that moment. If that happened she’d get someone to drive for her. A chauffeur, she thought,
as she tottered down the drive on her precarious heels. A good-looking one – dark with rippling muscles.

She started to laugh and, as the huge electronic gates came into view, she stopped and took a deep breath. She’d been meant
to drive to the meeting place – that had been the arrangement – but she didn’t think she was capable of putting the key in
the ignition, never mind negotiating the narrow Devon lanes. Maybe she’d go back now. She’d made her point to the old bitch,
fired warning shots across her bow.

But, after a moment’s hesitation, she continued walking. An arrangement was an arrangement and publicity was oxygen to keep
the flames of her fame alive and crackling. It wasn’t far to the main road. She’d walk it. Pick up a taxi. It’d clear her
head.

She looked up at the stars and laughed out loud, the sound breaking the still silence of velvet night, before walking very
slowly, towards the road.

Lost in her own thoughts, she was unaware of someone behind her, approaching silently across the neatly trimmed lawn.

When the strong hand locked over her mouth, she collapsed against the warm body of her assailant, unable to scream. Helpless.

Letter from Squire Bentham to the Reverend Charles Boden, 14th
May 1815

I do assure you, sir, that the boy, Peter Hackworthy, has come to no harm on his travels. Rather the lad enjoys the adulation
he receives for his performances. I myself have witnessed the generosity of the crowd as they shower him with gifts of money.
You will be aware, sir, that the Hackworthy family is large – I myself have taken two of them into my service – and I am not
inclined to deprive his father, who was before these remarkable events but a poor working man, of this welcome remuneration.

Were this gentleman of your acquaintance to take the lad and make a scholar of him, I fear for the future wellbeing of the
Hackworthys. The door of the poorhouse always stands ready to receive poor families of such fecundity who, by the vagaries
of life and through no fault of their own, fall upon misfortune. Yet, through young Peter’s gifts, the Hackworthys now enjoy
some welcome shelter against the storms of this precarious existence. I trust you would not, sir, expose them to a reduction
of their rising fortunes. Unless you, sir, are willing to compensate them from your own pocket for the grievous loss of income
that would result from such a course of action.

I remain, sir, your servant. John Bentham

Adrian Fallbrook’s heart lurched as the rough jangling of the doorbell shattered the silence of the drawing room. He looked
up from the newspaper and caught his wife, Carol’s, eye. It could be him.

Carol stood up. ‘I’ll go?’

Adrian put the paper down untidily beside him, his emotions swinging between anticipation and dread like the pendulum on the
oak grandfather clock in the corner.

‘No. I’d better . . . ’

As he stood up, Carol put a hand on his sleeve. ‘If it’s him be careful what you say. We don’t know anything about him. He
could be . . . ’

‘My brother?’ Adrian brushed her hand away and marched into the hall.

‘Will you tell him you’ve been to the police?’

Adrian stopped in his tracks. ‘Why not? If he’s got nothing to hide, he won’t mind.’

As soon as her husband left the room Carol began to bite her nails. This was a habit she’d managed to break a few years before
but this new turn of events had made her tense. Not many families had to deal with a long-dead relative – a relative they
had never even known – being resurrected, returning to life from some unknown underworld.

She wondered what he wanted of them. Money was the obvious answer of course. But she had a uncomfortable feeling of dread
in the pit of her stomach, a premonition perhaps that his return might herald some unspecified disaster.

She could hear the sound of voices in the hall and she froze, trying to make out the words. But they were speaking too quietly;
almost, it seemed, in a whisper. She had a sudden sense of conspiracy but she told herself that this was ridiculous. Adrian
was just as confused as she was.

A few moments later the two men appeared in the doorway, Adrian leading the way into the drawing room and inviting the stranger
who was claiming to be his long-lost half-brother to sit. Marcus sat down on the edge of the faded chintz sofa, as though
preparing for a quick getaway if things didn’t go according to plan. Carol watched his face carefully but saw nothing there
but nervous shyness, which, she supposed, was only to be expected in the circumstances.

‘Have you told, er . . . Marcus that you’ve been to the police?’ was Carol’s first question. The name Marcus almost stuck
in her throat but she didn’t know what else to call him.

Adrian nodded.

‘Yeah. It was the right thing to do. They had to be told,’ said
Marcus quietly, his eyes focused on the carpet. Carol watched him but found it impossible to guess at his true feelings about
the involvement of the authorities.

‘They’ll want to speak to you,’ she said.

‘Yeah. But I can’t tell ’em much. I don’t remember nothing about . . . ’

‘But you remember this house.’ Carol stood up. She was a tall woman, thin with a mane of unruly black hair. As she had never
been a beauty, she had channelled her considerable energies into being capable, ending up as head girl of her private school.
Later she had worked as PA to a millionaire businessman but then she abandoned the world of business for rural domesticity.
However, she still organised the local PCC and an assortment of charity events with the same ruthless efficiency with which
she’d run her employer’s life.

‘It’s like a sort of fog. Sometimes it clears and I remember things. But sometimes . . . ’

Carol pressed her lips together. The snob in her wincing at the man’s Manchester accent. She said nothing for a few moments
in the hope that the silence would unnerve him.

‘So I presume,’ she began after half a minute, ‘that in time you’ll remember what happened when you were . . . abducted.’

Marcus looked wary. ‘I hope so.’ He looked around. ‘I remember this room. French windows . . . and the tree house. Is it still
there, the tree house?’

Carol looked him straight in the eye. ‘Adrian says his parents always employed help in the house. What’s to say that you haven’t
learned all the things you know about this house and family from someone who worked here?’

But Adrian was seized by a sudden impulse to defend the man who was looking so crestfallen, so confused, like someone who’d
been invited to a party to be insulted for the amusement of his host. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Look at Marcus. Can’t
you see how alike we are? There’s no question of it . . . ’

But Carol wasn’t giving up. ‘Marcus, are you willing to take a DNA test . . . just to prove it once and for all?’

The look of relief on the visitor’s face was unmistakable. ‘I was going to suggest it myself,’ he said without a hint of hesitation.

‘I’ve looked it up on the Internet and there are several firms who promise results in a few days if you go for their premium
service.’
She looked Marcus in the eye. ‘Have the police contacted you yet? They told Adrian they would?’

Marcus nodded. ‘Someone called round at the guesthouse but I was out. I’ll give him a call tomorrow.’ He didn’t sound as if
he was looking forward to the prospect. Perhaps, Carol thought, he had had some unpleasant encounters with the police in the
course of his mysterious life.

And as far as she was concerned, that was the six-million-dollar question: what had the man who claimed to be Marcus Fallbrook
been doing between the time he’d disappeared from his family’s lives at the age of seven and the moment he turned up out of
the blue at Mirabilis yesterday?

Carol Fallbrook wouldn’t rest until she knew the truth.

Wesley Peterson wasn’t used to hanging around pubs on his own and when he approached the bar of the Bentham Arms, he felt
rather like a lonely child at a party where he knew nobody and nobody wanted to know him.

Clutching his warrant card in his hand, ready to show it to the bar staff if any awkward questions were asked, he looked around
the pub. It seemed a cosy establishment; pleasingly old-fashioned with an array of pewter tankards, horse brasses and hunting
prints. A country pub with a large fireplace which, being the back end of summer, was filled with dusty pine cones rather
than roaring logs. It was in this home from home that ex-DCI Houldsworth reputedly held court and Wesley scanned the lounge
bar for anyone who had the tell-tale look of a jaded ex-copper.

But halfway through his search, he spotted a familiar face. Neil Watson was sitting at a battered oak table in the corner
of the bar, surrounded by a group of people who Wesley assumed from their appearance were Neil’s fellow archaeologists. Neil
was sipping beer from a pint glass and looked completely relaxed, a man in his natural habitat.

After a few seconds Neil looked up and spotted him, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Hi, Wes. Come and join us.’ As Wesley
approached, Neil spoke to his colleagues who had all assumed vaguely welcoming expressions. ‘You know, Wes Peterson, don’t
you? He did archaeology with me at Exeter. He’s a copper now but don’t hold that against him.’ The group made noises of acknowledgment
and shifted up to make room for the newcomer.

Wesley hesitated. He was there to talk to ex-DCI Houldsworth, not to spend an evening socialising with old university friends.
And besides, he had told Pam he wouldn’t be long. But temptation was often difficult to resist. He asked if anyone wanted
a drink before going to the bar. He’d only have the one, he told himself firmly. Just to be sociable.

While he was at the bar he leaned forward and asked the motherly barmaid whether Mr Houldsworth was in that evening. He spoke
in a low voice, not wishing to be overheard. The barmaid looked him up and down suspiciously as though she was wondering what
this strange black man wanted with one of her regulars. But when Wesley showed her his warrant card and explained that he
wanted to pick his brains about an old case, her expression softened and she pointed out a large man sitting in solitary splendour
in the far corner, armed with a pint and a whisky chaser and puffing away heroically on a cigarette. Wesley thanked the barmaid
politely and returned to Neil with the drinks. Houldsworth didn’t look as if he intended to move from his post until closing
time.

‘How’s the dig going?’ he asked Neil, opening the conversation.

‘Gruesome,’ was Neil’s one-word verdict.

Wesley raised his eyebrows.

‘The earth’s damp and half the coffins are rotten,’ said one of his female colleagues, a rosy-cheeked girl fresh out of university.
‘When they lift them they keep breaking with a horrid sound of splintering wood. Then the bones fall out,’ she added with
inappropriate relish.

Wesley nodded sympathetically and turned to Neil. ‘You haven’t been round for a long time . . . not since Maritia’s wedding.’

‘Is it that long?’

Wesley noticed that Neil was avoiding looking him in the eye. And, as Neil was one of the most straightforward people he knew,
this puzzled him. ‘Is there something wrong?’

Neil felt his cheeks reddening. He forced himself to smile. ‘No, course not, mate. It’s just this dig’s not as easy as we
thought it was going to be, that’s all. Look, I’ll call round when I’ve got a moment. Er . . . how’s Pam?’

‘Apart from the fact that term’s just started, she’s fine.’

‘You’re sure everything’s OK? It’s not like you to indulge in solitary drinking in strange pubs.’

‘This is business, not pleasure. There’s someone I have to see and I’ve been told I can find him here.’ He drank half of his
pint and looked round. ‘In fact I’d better get on with it. I told Pam I wouldn’t be long. See you soon, eh?’

Wesley raised his hand in farewell to the company and carried his drink over to where ex-DCI Houldsworth was sitting. The
pub wasn’t particularly full but there seemed to be an exclusion zone around Houldsworth, as if he had staked his claim to
his own little corner of the pub as people used to own pews in churches and had their own leather armchairs in gentlemen’s
clubs. He looked up as Wesley approached, his eyes filled with barely disguised hostility.

‘That seat’s taken,’ were his first words. He was looking at Wesley as though he’d crawled out from a sewer.

But Wesley decided to ignore the obvious message. ‘Gerry Heffernan told me I’d find you here.’ He watched the man’s face and
saw a flicker of recognition. ‘My name’s Wesley Peterson. I’m Gerry’s DI at Tradmouth.’

Houldsworth smirked. ‘I heard something about Gerry being promoted. How’s the old bugger doing?’

‘He’s fine.’

‘Sorry to hear about his wife. Tragic that.’

‘Yes. Very sad.’

Houldsworth looked Wesley up and down. ‘So you’re his DI? Bet you stand out like a sore thumb.’

Wesley decided to ignore the racist innuendo. Putting the man straight would hardly make him co-operative. ‘Gerry suggested
I ask you about one of your cases.’

Houldsworth let out a mighty burp and patted his chest. ‘Pardon me.’ He held out his empty pint glass. ‘I find the memory
works better after a pint of best and a Scotch chaser.’

Wesley had no choice but to oblige. And when he returned from the bar with the drinks, Houldsworth looked decidedly more friendly.
It’s hard to insult the man who buys the drinks.

Wesley decided to come straight to the point. ‘I’d like to arrange a convenient time to speak to you about the Marcus Fallbrook
case.’

There was a long silence while Houldsworth quaffed his drink with the speed and urgency of a suction pump. It could hardly
be good for the man’s health, Wesley thought. And the bloodshot eyes and sallow skin suggested a serious drink problem.

‘You’ve kept your notebooks, I take it?’

Houldsworth tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nasty case. The nanny had something to do with it . . . never proved it though.
Did you see that article in one of the tabloids a couple of months back? Great unsolved crimes of the seventies. Did the police
make mistakes and was there a cover up? That sort of thing. Made us look like incompetent idiots it did.’ He downed what was
left of his beer. The article had clearly got to him.

Wesley glanced at his watch. ‘Can we talk about it tomorrow?’

Houldsworth said nothing for a few moments. Then all of a sudden he picked up the small glass of whisky and drained it. ‘Better
make it lunchtime. In here. OK?’

Wesley would have preferred somewhere away from licensed premises but he nodded. ‘What about your notes?’

‘I’ll dig them out. OK?’ the large man snapped.

‘Do you live far away?’ Wesley asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

‘Just up the stairs.’ He grinned, showing an uneven set of yellow teeth. ‘My sister’s the landlady. She split up with her
husband a couple of years ago so I give her a hand. It’s a convenient arrangement for both of us.’

‘Oh,’ was all Wesley could think of to say. There was an old joke about every man dreaming about marrying a nymphomaniac who
owned a pub, but he supposed a divorced sister who owned one was the next best thing for a man like Houldsworth.