The Shining Skull (7 page)

‘All I’m saying is that we should keep an open mind,’ Wesley protested, sensing he was being ganged up on.

‘So what do you reckon then, Barry?’ Heffernan asked.

‘I reckon the kidnappers were in league with the nanny, Jenny Booker. I never trusted her – or that boyfriend of hers – but
there was nothing we could prove. The boyfriend – Gordon Heather his name was – didn’t have a criminal record but I still
didn’t trust the bastard. He was odd . . . decidedly odd. And I ask you, would a pampered, protected kid like Marcus just
go off with someone he didn’t know? Course he wouldn’t. He disappeared from the school grounds at lunchtime and nobody saw
a thing. What if Booker had arranged to meet him? Said something like, why don’t I come to fetch you at lunchtime and we can
have a jolly picnic? She had no alibi for the time he disappeared. She said she was shopping in Morbay but she couldn’t prove
it. She says she didn’t buy anything so she couldn’t produce any receipts and this was long before the days of CCTV cameras
on every lamp post.’

‘Any idea where we can find her now?’

Houldsworth smirked and shook his head.

‘You seem pretty sure it was her.’ Wesley glanced at Heffernan who was giving nothing away.

Houldsworth pushed the notebooks in Wesley’s direction.
‘Read the notes I took at the time and I’ll bet you a night’s free ale that you come to the same conclusion.’ He leaned forward.
‘I’d have liked to see that little bitch behind bars. What she did to that family was . . . ’ He shook his head, lost for
adequate words. ‘It killed the poor mother, you know.’

‘So I’ve heard. You know the father died recently. And there’s a half-brother – a son by the father’s second wife.’

‘She still around?’

‘No. She died a while ago.’

‘Not a very lucky family, are they?’ mused Gerry Heffernan as he savoured the contents of his glass. Houldsworth’s sister
kept a good cellar.

‘It was the half-brother, Adrian Fallbrook, who let us know that this man claiming to be Marcus had turned up.’

‘At least he’s got some sense. This phoney Marcus won’t hang round for long if he thinks the police are looking into his story,
you’ll see.’

‘Can I take these notebooks?’

‘No use to me now,’ Houldsworth said sadly, staring at his empty glass. ‘Anyone going to the bar?’

Wesley and Gerry made their excuses and left.

Neil Watson found the Reverend John Ventnor at the vicarage, a detached brick box on the edge of the village, constructed
in the nineteen sixties by someone with more interest in cost effectiveness than architectural style. The original vicarage
– a gorgeous Georgian pile with a garden that had hosted many a fete – was now occupied by a retired city banker and his gym-honed
second wife.

Neil was greeted by Mrs Ventnor, a plump, pretty woman with a couple of toddlers clinging to her long floral skirts. She told
him that John was busy writing his sermon, but would probably be grateful for the interruption, so Neil followed her into
the house to the small room overlooking the back garden that served as the Rector’s study.

‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ Ventnor said as he rose from his seat, knocking his notes to the ground. ‘Found something interesting?’

‘You could say that,’ said Neil, glancing round the book-lined room. ‘One of the Bentham coffins contains two bodies.’

The Rector frowned. ‘Really?’

‘I wondered if I could have a look at the burial register. One of the skeletons appears to be that of an older child. I’m
just wondering whether a mother and child were buried together or . . . ’

‘It was common for a baby to be buried with its mother. But an older child in the same coffin . . . You’re sure it was in
the same coffin? One hadn’t just rotted away or . . . ’

‘No, it was definitely the same coffin.’

Ventnor picked a large set of keys up off the desk. ‘Tell you what, let’s go over to the church and have a look at the registers.
They’re kept in a safe in the vestry.’

Neil walked down the main village street with Ventnor who greeted people as he passed, making swift enquiries about bad legs
and the state of parents’ health. Neil envied him his easy manner, the effortless concern he could muster in a split second;
and the remarkable memory that allowed him to store all his parishioners’ joys, woes and hospital admissions in its data bank.
But then he supposed it was all part of the job and it had been acquired with practice, like his own encyclopaedic knowledge
of pottery sherds and artefacts.

The excavations at the church were hidden from public view by tall white screens, carefully erected with no gaps for the local
teenagers to peep through during their long and boring evenings spent hanging around the village phone box and bus shelter.
Neil glanced at them as Ventnor unlocked the church door, wondering if anything was going on behind them that might require
his attention. He fingered the mobile phone in his pocket: if he was needed someone would let him know.

He followed Ventnor down the side aisle to the vestry. St Merion’s Church, in common with many Devon churches, possessed an
intricately carved and painted rood screen between nave and chancel. Neil paused for a moment to admire the medieval paintwork
faded to a subtle, muted beauty over the centuries. The heavy peace within the church was unaffected by all the activity outside
in the churchyard and the footsteps of the two men rang hollow on the cold stone floor as they made for the vestry.

The vestry itself was a cosy room with monumental cupboards for surplices and choir robes filling one wall and a large oak
desk that had been leaned on by many hopeful couples as they signed the marriage register. A large iron safe, an ancient artefact
in itself,
stood near the door. John Ventnor opened it and took out an old, leather-bound book with the word ‘burials’ emblazoned in
faded gold on its cover.

‘Do you know the name and date of the burial?’ the Rector asked, flicking carefully through the pages.

Neil nodded. ‘Juanita Bentham. 1816.’ He took a sheet of paper from the pocket of his combat jacket. ‘I’ve made a note of
all the names on the monument, although there were a few infant burials that weren’t listed. And I’ve noted all the names
we have so far from the coffin plates. Perhaps if we matched them with the register.’

‘Are all the Bentham burials disinterred now?’

Neil nodded. ‘It’s just a job of matching names to skulls.’

John Ventnor walked to the desk and flicked through the pages of a large diary. ‘I’ll conduct the Benthams’ reburial service
after I’ve finished writing my sermon. Since Miss Worth died there are no living relatives so there’s nobody to notify.’ He
sighed. ‘That line keeps going through my head. “The paths of glory lead but to the grave.” The Benthams were the village
squires. Front pews in church. Forelocks tugged as they rode past in their carriages. They had the power to appoint the parish
clergy . . . my predecessors. They even had the village pub named after them.’

‘And now they’re just a load a mouldering skeletons – exactly like the farm labourers who had to work their fingers to the
bone on their estates and bow and scrape . . . ’

‘Death, the great leveller.’ The Rector smiled and looked at his watch. ‘Can I leave you to lock up, Neil? Just bring the
keys back when you’ve finished.’

Neil was glad to be left alone in the silent church, alone to think, away from the bustle of the churchyard and the sight
of the ground yielding its grim harvest.

He roamed around the church for a while, examining the rood screen and the worn grave slabs in the aisles, each telling a
story of a human being who had lived, loved and died in Stoke Beeching centuries ago. He imagined them: the old; the young;
male and female; young soldiers killed in far off wars or sailors drowned in tragic shipwrecks off the treacherous Devon coast;
young women dying in childbirth; unmarried sons and daughters barely out of their teens succumbing to fevers; loved matriarchs;
loathed patriarchs; innocent babies. They had all ended up together in the church . . . a silent congregation of bones.

After a while he wandered back to the vestry and began to poke around absentmindedly in the massive oak cupboards lining the
walls of the small room. But there was nothing much of interest, only the usual assortment of battered hymn books and choir
surplices that had seen better days. In the bottom of one cupboard he found an oak box, not large, not small and dulled by
years of dust and grime. He was about to close the cupboard door when he noticed a pair of initials carved roughly on the
lid – JS. Probably a former Rector, he concluded, having noticed a John Singleton on the list of Victorian incumbents hanging
on the wall. The box probably contained copies of Singleton’s old sermons, he thought as he shut the door and returned to
the desk.

He settled himself down in the throne-like chair and began to go through the burial registers, matching each coffin found
with its entry. Even the infant burials – the newborn babies who hadn’t survived their first night – had been meticulously
recorded by the rector of the day in immaculate copper plate handwriting, so it was just a matter of checking and double checking
against the list he had made of the names on the coffin plates and the number of coffins.

The task took longer than he’d expected. And two hours later he realised that he had a mystery on his hands.

It seemed that the Bentham family vault had held one corpse too many. Juanita Bentham’s coffin had harboured an interloper.

As soon as the phone started to ring, Suzy Wakefield grabbed the receiver. It would be Leah. She was ringing to say that she
was all right . . . that she was sorry and she’d be coming home soon. She’d caused a great deal of heartache but Suzy was
happy to forgive her everything. As long as she was safe.

But the voice on the other end of the line wasn’t Leah’s. It was androgynous, metallic. As though it had been processed through
some sort of machine.

The caller didn’t wait for any sort of acknowledgement. The words began as soon as Suzy put the receiver to her ear. ‘We have
your daughter. If you do exactly as you’re told, she won’t be harmed. Further instructions will follow. If you contact the
police your daughter will die.’

When the line went dead Suzy was left, frozen with horror, listening to the dialling tone. After her initial panic had subsided,
she pressed the buttons. 1471 to get the caller’s number. But she heard an electronic voice, more friendly this time, telling
her that it was sorry but the caller has withheld the number. And Suzy Wakefield burst into tears.

Letter from Juanita Bentham to Mrs Sarah Jewel of Brighton, 15th May 1815

My dearest Mrs Jewel,

I thank you for your kind enquiries. My husband is in good health and myself also. I do, however, suffer greatly from this
English damp and cold, so unlike my mother’s native island. How I long sometimes to be back on Nevis in the warmth and sunshine.
I feel on occasions that I shall die of the chill but Sir John chides me for my foolishness.

I trust the girls are in the best of health. I think of them often and miss their good company for they were always the dearest
of my charges. You ask if my new life in Devon suits me and I can say with honesty that it does apart from the climate as
I mentioned before. Sir John’s house is very fine and the servants respectful. The church here in Stoke Beeching is full of
antiquity and in Devon they have the habit of ringing the bells of their churches in wonderful tunes that lift the hearts
of those who hear them.

Yet I miss you and Mr Jewel and the girls for you were all so kind to me when my dear father died. Be assured you are always
in my prayers.

Although I am happy here, there have been certain events in the village that concern me. I fear there might be something evil
here. But it may be a foolish fancy of mine. I shall write no more of it.

I have the fondest memories of my stay in Brighton and I have great hopes that circumstances will allow me to visit with you
soon. Be assured of my best and fondest love always.

Your loving friend, Juanita Bentham.

* * *

Wesley Peterson and Gerry Heffernan hadn’t fancied hanging around the Bentham Arms under Barry Houldsworth’s jaundiced eye.
Besides, they hadn’t been tempted by the range of goodies on offer in that particular establishment. The only choice on Houldsworth’s
sister’s menu was between ham or cheese sandwiches. Hardly a gastronomic treat.

They returned to Tradmouth to grab a hotpot in the Fisherman’s Arms and by the time they returned to the police station their
stomachs were satisfied and their minds relaxed. Wesley had Houldsworth’s notebooks safely in his pocket and as soon as he
reached his office he placed them on the desk beside the case files. There must be something in that pile of musty paper,
he thought, that would catch Mark Jones out . . . or confirm his story.

Both policemen knew that the problem needed to be resolved fairly quickly before Jones’s hold on the Fallbrook family tightened
and he became part of their lives. It would save a lot of heartache if the true identity of the newcomer was confirmed sooner
rather than later.

Wesley had already glanced at the nanny, Jenny Booker’s statement and somehow it did seem a little odd. Maybe Houldsworth
had been right to regard Jenny as a prime suspect.

Deciphering Houldsworth’s spidery handwriting, he could sense the man’s frustration at not having enough evidence to charge
Jenny Booker. She and her boyfriend, Gordon Heather had been arrested and interviewed but they’d used the tried and trusted
tactic of denying everything, sticking to their story, never deviating from their statements. In the end, Houldsworth had
had no reason to hold them, other than a hunch. And hunches don’t stand up in court.

And there was another problem: the boy’s mother, Anna Fallbrook, was adamant that Jenny had nothing to do with it. Jenny loved
Marcus, she said. And she would never have harmed him. When Gordon Heather’s name was mentioned she refused to accept that
Jenny could have been influenced to do anything that might hurt Marcus. And besides, even though he had aroused Houldsworth’s
suspicions, Heather had no criminal convictions.

Something told Wesley that Anna Fallbrook had been hiding her head in the proverbial sand. But why? Most women in her position
would have clutched at any possibility . . . suspecting anyone and everyone. Grasping for hope.

The more Wesley read, the more he wanted to speak to Jenny Booker. It was just a matter of finding her.

He picked up one of the files and a plastic bag slipped out. He picked it up and studied it. Inside was a sheet of thin yellow
A4 paper, the type common in offices at one time. He read the words printed on it.

‘We have your son. If you obey our instructions to the letter he won’t be harmed. But if you tell the police we won’t hesitate
to cut his throat. Await instructions.’

Pretty standard fare, Wesley thought. Then he opened the file up and saw a second plastic bag containing a second note. Neatly
printed just like the first on identical paper.

‘If you love Marcus and you want him returned you must pay £15,000 for his continued survival. We’ll say where and when. Wait
for instructions and don’t tell the police. If you do we’ll cut his throat.’

The words sent a chill through Wesley’s body. He was a father himself and reading these words, these crazy, cold-hearted words,
made him feel slightly sick.

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. Jenny Booker must be somewhere.

Suzy Wakefield had sat, shaking with terror, deciding on the best course of action. For the first time in a year she wished
Darren was there with her. The bitter words that had passed between them had fled from her mind. All she wanted was support;
a shoulder to lean on. And at that moment she’d even make do with an unreliable, treacherous one like Darren’s.

She sat there, staring at the phone; willing it to ring; unaware of her surroundings; unaware of the time passing. In her
imagination she picked up the receiver and heard Leah’s voice on the other end saying it was all a joke, a cruel trick to
teach her irritating mother a lesson. But the telephone didn’t ring: the only sound in the house was the distant babble of
a TV game show drifting in from another room. She was alone there. Alone with her burden of knowledge.

Then, after a few still and frozen minutes, her brain began to clear. The caller had said that the police shouldn’t be contacted
but he – or she – had said nothing about talking to anyone else.

With a shaking hand she picked up the receiver and punched out the number of Darren’s mobile. If this thing was for real he
should
be told. She shouldn’t have to bear it alone. Besides, if there was money to be found, she’d need his help. She had little
money of her own and both of them had to sign documents if they wanted access to Leah’s considerable bank balance.

She listened as the phone rang out at the other end, tapping her foot impatiently, whispering ‘Come on, come on,’ under her
breath. When she heard Darren’s voice, hostile and wary, her mind went blank for a second then she blurted out the words.
‘I’ve had a call. Someone’s got Leah. They’re threatening to kill her.’

Darren didn’t speak for a few moments. Then he asked if she was making it up, his voice heavy with suspicion.

It was a cruel question and it stung Suzy like a slap. ‘Of course I’m not. I wouldn’t make up something like that.’ She felt
the hot tears run down her cheek. ‘Of course not. I’d never do anything like that. They’ve got her. They said not to tell
the police.’

‘It’s someone having a joke. You’ve got to get the cops in. They’ll trace the call and . . . ’

‘No,’ Suzy almost shouted down the phone. ‘I won’t take the risk.’

‘So you’re going to let someone bleed us white while madam’s sunning herself on some Costa.’ There was a long silence. Suzy
knew Darren was thinking . . . which made a change. ‘She’ll be behind all this,’ he continued. ‘She’ll have got one of her
mates to call. She’s been on about getting her hands on more of her money . . . How she thinks Brad’s been keeping her short.
This’ll be her idea of pay day. Either that or it’s Brad’s idea of a publicity stunt. Tell the cops. Call her bluff.’

Suzy slammed the phone down, wishing she could share Darren’s optimistic assessment of the situation. She stared at the phone
for a further five minutes, numb and confused, before making the decision to call Brad Williams.

Leah’s manager would know what to do.

At four o’clock on the dot, Rachel Tracey wandered into Wesley Peterson’s office and sat down.

Wesley looked up and smiled. ‘What’s new?’

She sighed and flicked her shoulder-length blond hair off her face. The gesture held a hint of invitation, which Wesley studiously
ignored.

‘The Barber’s victims were all regular customers of local taxi
firms. I think he’s been listening to the taxi frequencies and whenever the taxi’s ordered in a woman’s name, he follows
the cab.’

Wesley caught on quick. ‘And he checks if she fits his requirements and next time she calls a cab, he turns up.’

‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘If you’re right, it means he’s very well organised. It’s a lot of trouble to go to.’

‘For you and me maybe.’

‘But not for someone who’s . . . ’

‘A weirdo? We’ve got to get him, Wesley. We’ve got to find him before he does something worse than chopping their hair off.’

‘Maybe that’s all he wants to do.’

Rachel looked at him, concerned. ‘You really think he’ll be satisfied with a bit of rough hairdressing? You think this thing
won’t escalate?’

‘Gerry Heffernan does.’

‘Don’t you?’ Rachel watched his face but his expression gave nothing away.

‘To be honest, Rachel, I don’t know.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I hear you’ve moved out of the farm.’

Rachel felt her cheeks burning. ‘Yeah. Trish and I are renting somewhere. It’s a holiday cottage so it’s only available till
next spring. I thought it was about time I got my own place. You have to leave home one day, don’t you?’

‘What about next summer? Won’t your mother need your help with the holiday lets?’ Rachel, a farmer’s daughter, had been helping
her mother with the holiday apartments that kept Little Barton Farm out of the financial quagmire that faced so many local
farmers, since her teenage years. Her move would be a blow to her family. Her parents, like Wesley’s own, weren’t getting
any younger.

‘My brother Tom’s wife says she’s going to start doing more,’ she said nervously, as though she hardly believed it. ‘And I
won’t be far away. I can still make it over there to change the bedding on Saturdays when the holiday season arrives. We’ll
sort something out,’ she said confidently.

‘So what’s it like . . . independence?’

Rachel smiled. She thought she saw a glimmer of envy in Wesley’s eyes. ‘It’s good. Really good.’ She paused, wondering whether
to say the next thing that popped into her head. But she
was feeling reckless so she said it anyway. ‘You’ll have to come round to see the place.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Wesley quickly, not really intending to take Rachel up on her offer. He was a married man. And cosy
invitations led to trouble.

The awkward silence that followed was interrupted by a sharp knock on the office door and Rachel’s heart sank when she saw
Steve Carstairs’s head appear. DC Carstairs was hardly her favourite colleague and he was the last person she would have wanted
to catch her alone with Wesley. She knew his love of innuendo and muckspreading of the sort not undertaken by the farming
community.

But she assumed her bravest face and went on the attack. ‘Steve, I was just about to ask you if anything’s come in from the
taxi firms.’

‘Not yet, Sarge,’ said Steve with a sly smirk. ‘Paul’s out doing the rounds . . . asking if any of the drivers have noticed
someone following them when they’ve picked up lone women but nothing yet.’ He turned to Wesley. ‘I’ve checked with Greater
Manchester Police and there is a Mark Jones living at the address he gave and there’s a Mark Jones working at the garden centre
he mentioned. And the hospital confirm that a Mark Jones was treated for concussion around the time he said. And the story
about his Aunty Lynne checks out too. A Lynne Jones living at the same address died last September. It all seems kosher.’

‘Thanks, Steve. Well done,’ Wesley said, trying his best to keep on the right side of that fine line between encouraging and
patronising. From the sour expression on Steve’s face, he wasn’t sure whether he’d been entirely successful.

‘So it looks as though this Mark Jones is telling the truth,’ Rachel said softly after Steve had gone. ‘If the DNA test he’s
offered to take comes back positive . . . ’

‘Then he’s who he says he is. Marcus Fallbrook, heir to a rather substantial fortune. And the first person I’ve ever known
to come back from the dead,’ said Wesley.

Rachel stood up. ‘It can’t be easy for the brother . . . for Adrian Fallbrook and his wife. He’s due to lose half his property
to this stranger who’s just turned up out of the blue. I’ve known people commit murder for less.’

Wesley looked up. This was something he’d never considered before – the fact that Mark Jones himself could be in danger.

* * *

The bodies had been reburied. All of them except the one with no name; Juanita Bentham’s companion in death. Something made
Neil ask for his bones – for Neil was pretty sure that it was a teenage male – to be taken to Dr Colin Bowman at Tradmouth
Hospital mortuary.

The Reverend John Ventnor eventually acquiesced, although he made it clear that he had his reservations. The arrangement had
been to give all the bodies the Christian burial they would have expected and deserved in another part of the churchyard as
soon as possible after their disinterment. It seemed rather distasteful, he said, to keep one away from his final resting
place just because of an administrative error – for that’s what he had convinced himself had happened all those years back
in 1816. The rector at the time or, more likely, his inexperienced curate, had omitted to enter the boy’s name into the burial
register.

But Neil pointed out patiently that this theory didn’t explain why he was sharing a coffin with Juanita Bentham. He was far
too old to be her child. Ventnor suggested that he might be her brother but somehow Neil couldn’t see it. A younger brother
who had died tragically on a visit to his married sister would, surely, have had a coffin to himself. Sharing already cramped
accommodation in this way would surely be taking thrift too far as far as the wealthy Benthams were concerned.