The Shroud Maker (20 page)

‘Any idea what this new lead might have been?’

‘I’ve no idea and I’m still waiting to hear from him. I wonder what he’s playing at.’ She looked at Wesley accusingly. ‘You haven’t spoken to him, have you?’

Wesley caught Rachel’s eye. There was no avoiding the truth. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Darwell was found dead yesterday,’ he said gently.

Mrs West’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh no. Poor Mr Darwell. He was such a nice man.’

Wesley waited for the news to sink in before speaking again.

‘Do you mind if we talk about Kassia? You said she was musically talented. Before she died she was playing the viol in an early music group.’

‘Jake was a musician.’ She wrinkled her nose at the mention of Kassia’s father, as if she found the memory of the man distasteful. ‘It was him who chose her name. Kassia of Constantinople was a ninth-century female composer – a Byzantine nun. I thought it was a bit pretentious myself. He used to take her busking with him. Begging for money,’ she added with distaste.

‘How did you know she was in Devon?’

‘I met an old school friend of hers in Didsbury village. Lisa. Nice girl. She said Kassia had written her a note saying she intended to move to South Devon. That’s all I had to go on.’

‘Have you ever heard the name William de Clare?’

She shook her head. ‘Is that him? Is that the man who killed her?’

‘We don’t know that.’

Wesley could see that her eyes were glazed with tears. ‘I know we had our differences but she’s my only grandchild.’

The veneer of control broke and she began to sob, her shoulders shaking as tears and mucus ran down her face, mingling with her foundation and eyeshadow to form rivulets of colour. Rachel hurried over to sit on the sofa beside her, placing her arm around the woman’s shoulders and handing her a wad of tissues from the padded box on the side table. ‘Is there anyone who can stay with you? A neighbour or a relative?’

She gave the name of a neighbour, another widow who lived a few doors down. Another survivor of the old days before the street had become home to a transient population. Wesley left Mrs West with Rachel and went to the hall where he found an address book by the telephone. Luckily the neighbour answered after the second ring and said she’d be round right away. Wesley was glad she hadn’t asked too many questions.

Before they left Rachel asked Mrs West if she wanted to travel down to Devon with them and Mrs Darwell the next morning. She declined, saying she couldn’t face it.

Wesley didn’t blame her.

After Wesley’s call came in, Gerry Heffernan sat at his desk contemplating the news. Kassia Graylem’s friend, Lisa, had said she’d been involved with a man called William de Clare. It sounded like a name from a medieval tale. Or the Shipworld website. Wesley had reminded him that, according to Jenny Bercival’s cousin, she too had been involved with somebody called William. It was a tenuous connection, but even so it was one.

He asked one of the DCs to trace anyone of that name who might fit the bill and he’d also asked her to find out whether it was the name of one of the Shipworld characters. It was worth checking.

Wesley had also mentioned that he’d had a call from Neil to say that more human remains had been found during his excavation next to the house recently purchased by Chris Butcher; Chris Butcher whose company ran the website that appeared to have inspired Kassia’s killer. The coroner had been informed about the bones and a couple of DCs had gone down there to deal with it. But Gerry could tell that Wesley was itching to get back from Manchester and see for himself. He had heard the disappointment in Wesley’s voice. Gerry hoped the two sets of bones wouldn’t add to their workload.

Gerry was frustrated that there was still no sign of Dennis Dobbs. All patrols were on the lookout for him and he had to be somewhere; Gerry just wished he knew where. Perhaps they should put more pressure on Jason Teague, he thought. But when he’d sworn that he didn’t know where Dobbs was, somehow Gerry had believed him.

He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. The day was still young. He was already hungry and he began to wonder which takeaway he was going to patronise that night. In the meantime, he had a problem; something he’d put off dealing with because he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. He’d received a call from Forensic earlier that day while Colin had been conducting Eric Darwell’s postmortem, to say that when they’d examined the anonymous letter received by Mrs Bercival they’d found that it bore the indentations of another letter written on the sheet of paper above it on the writing pad. An hour later they’d e-mailed the results over.

He’d asked Trish to print out the e-mail for him. When he read it, the contents were quite unexpected; however, the more he thought about it, the more it made some sort of sense.

He was just contemplating the dilemma when his phone rang again. When he answered it he heard a man’s voice, the accent European, possibly Spanish. The caller introduced himself as Captain Garcia, the master of the
Maudelayne
. Something had been found on board the cog, something that might be linked to the death of the girl in the dinghy.

Gerry thanked him and said someone would be round as soon as possible. The captain hadn’t been specific but for him to take the trouble to call, whatever it was must be important.

He surveyed the CID office, which was still buzzing with activity. The team were working to trace Dennis Dobbs and eliminate every William de Clare who fell into the right age group and might conceivably have been in London at the appropriate times. No wonder everyone looked overworked and harassed.

He rose from his seat and made his way over to the noticeboard where he called for attention and spouted what he considered to some inspiring words of encouragement to his troops before leaving the office. He would pay the
Maudelayne
a visit, then after that he’d call on Mrs Bercival and pick up some fish and chips on the way back. Nobody could say it wasn’t an efficient use of police time.

When he reached the embankment he saw the cog bobbing at anchor, timbers creaking with each movement of the tide. The gangplank was still in place and a dozen or so visitors were waiting in line to go on board to take a look around. Gerry had been eager to board the vessel ever since she’d sailed into port with her great square sail raised to catch the breeze. Today the massive sail was neatly furled away and the supporting rope shrouds ran taut from the deck to the top of the great mast like the well-ordered webs of some monstrous spider.

In Tradmouth’s heyday, the quayside would have been crammed with vessels like this, loading and unloading their cargos. And in times of war, the purpose of the cogs would change and they would bristle with the arms needed to take on their French counterparts which prowled the Channel, concealed by banks of fog, waiting to slip into the river and attack the town.

Gerry took his warrant card from his jacket pocket. What was the use of having the might of the law behind you if you couldn’t jump the queue? There was a fair-haired young man on the deck dressed as a medieval sailor, guarding the rope barrier and ensuring that only a few visitors were allowed on at a time. He looked the clean-cut type, more at home on the sports field than strutting around in tights. Gerry wormed his way to the front of the queue, apologising good-naturedly. ‘Sorry, love. Sorry, mate. Police. Can I just…’

When he reached the foot of the gangway, he shouted up, displaying his warrant card like a shield. ‘Police. I’m here to see Captain Garcia.’

The rope barrier was unhooked and Gerry clambered aboard, taking in every detail of the rigging with undisguised admiration. Whoever had built this accurate replica had performed a labour of love.

‘Sure. If you’d like to come this way.’ The young man’s accent was American, which surprised Gerry slightly.

‘You been on crowd control all day then?’

The man looked puzzled. ‘Pardon me?’

Gerry nodded towards the queue of people, some of whom were watching intently, hoping for a vicarious sniff of drama.

‘Only a couple of hours. Captain’s cabin’s this way.’

Gerry was led below deck, bowing his head to avoid the low ceiling. It smelled of new wood down here, even though the ship was at least ten years old and the claustrophobic darkness was relieved by flickering candles. At first Gerry thought they were real then he realised they were electric imitations to limit the risk of fire.

Here and there visitors stumbled around, the children silenced by the gloom, the adults speaking in hushed voices as if they were in a church. The creaking was louder here and the deck shifted rhythmically beneath their feet. But Gerry felt quite at home.

The captain’s cabin was at the aft of the ship. The American knocked and after a few moments the door opened.

The man standing there was probably in his forties with black hair that was turning white at the temples, and he had something that the DCI recognised immediately: authority, a presence that couldn’t be ignored. When Gerry introduced himself the man held out his hand. ‘Sebastian Garcia,’ he said. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier.’

‘Good to meet you, Captain,’ said Gerry, shaking the man’s hand heartily. ‘You said you’d found something?’

‘That’s right. The police came on board asking if anyone had seen anything of that poor girl whose body was found in the dinghy. Nobody had but…’ He paused and made his way over to a cupboard that had been built in beneath the tall bed. From here he took out a case, black and somewhat battered and slightly larger than a violin case. He passed it to Gerry.

‘The news bulletins said she was a violinist and that her instrument was missing. One of my crew found this pushed into the bushes near the public lavatories by the Memorial Gardens. He took it and hid it in his cabin but the man he shares with found it and brought it to me. I’ve already had a word with him,’ he added ominously. ‘I suppose you’d like to see him.’

Gerry nodded and the captain poked his head out of the cabin door and shouted to some unseen person to tell Andre Gorst he was wanted in the captain’s cabin. Now.

As they sat down and waited Gerry began to talk about the ship, modestly outlining his own sailing credentials. Garcia related how the
Maudelayne
had been built in Bristol to celebrate the Millennium and travelled around the coast for events throughout most of the year and how the Palkin Festival had been a regular booking since 2010. Garcia had been involved in the project from the beginning and had taken over as master in 2008. The cog was his life, he said. A dream come true.

After about ten minutes there was a knock on the cabin door and a young man burst in. ‘I can’t find Andre. Someone said he went ashore earlier. Must have been just after I found that violin.’

The captain stood up, looming over Gerry. ‘He’s supposed to be on board.’

The young sailor gave an apologetic shrug, palms upward. ‘I’ve looked everywhere. He hasn’t come back.’

‘Do you know where he was on Saturday morning first thing?’ Gerry asked.

‘He was on shore leave,’ Garcia replied. He looked at the sailor. ‘You share a cabin with him. Have you any idea…?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I spent the night ashore too – my family live in Morbay.’

Gerry turned to Garcia. ‘Tell me about Andre Gorst.’

‘He’s been with me three years but I wouldn’t say I know him well. I’ve heard he’s one for the ladies. Likes his shore leave.’

‘Girl in every port?’

‘He’s certainly got one here at the moment,’ the cabin-mate said with a nervous glance at the captain. ‘Keeps slipping off to meet her.’

‘Did he say anything about the instrument case you found?’

‘I asked but he told me to mind my own business. I heard the police were looking for it so I took it to the captain. Haven’t seen Andre since.’

Gerry produced a picture of Kassia and handed it to the sailor. ‘Recognise her? Ever seen her with Gorst?’

‘Sorry. No,’ he said. Gerry gave it to the captain who shook his head.

‘You say you’ve been here for the Palkin Festival for the past few years,’ Gerry said as Garcia handed the picture back. ‘That means you were in port last year when a girl called Jenny Bercival disappeared.’ He watched the captain’s face carefully. All the animation had vanished, to be replaced by a blank expression that was impossible to read.

‘Yes, we were in Tradmouth then. But the name means nothing to me.’

‘Was Andre Gorst here too?’

‘As I said, he’s been a member of my crew for three years.’

‘I need a photograph of him. And as soon as he comes back you call me or one of my team. Day or night.’ He handed the captain his card. ‘Where are you headed when you leave Tradmouth?’

‘London. St Katharine Docks. We spend a lot of time there. The
Maudelayne
’s a great attraction.’

‘Thanks,’ said Gerry, his mind working. ‘And as well as the picture of Gorst can you give me a list of all the present crew members who were with you when you visited Tradmouth last year. I’ll send someone round to get it and pick up the viol. And we’ll need the fingerprints of everyone who’s touched it for elimination purposes.’ He gave the captain a businesslike smile which wasn’t returned. A hint of annoyance appeared in the man’s eyes but, like most sensible people, he was wise enough to suppress it in front of a police officer.

As he left the cog and headed inland to Mrs Bercival’s rented cottage, Gerry experienced a fresh thrill of hope. They now had a suspect who’d been in possession of Kassia’s missing instrument and surely it wouldn’t be long till he was found and brought in.

Gerry hadn’t called ahead so Mrs Bercival wasn’t expecting him. When she opened the door and recognised him, her lips parted with a half-formed question, her eyes shining with hope. He felt bad about what he had to do.