The Shroud Maker (21 page)

‘Can I have a word, love?’

‘You’ve found Jenny?’

‘Sorry, love. No news yet. But we’re doing all we can.’ It was the most reassuring phrase he could come up with on the spur of the moment.

The hope in her eyes vanished and she stood aside to let him in, her head bowed in disappointment.

He made himself comfortable on the sofa in the small living room and she sat down opposite him, perched on the edge of the armchair, nervously twisting the wedding ring she still wore round and round.

‘Our Forensic people examined that last letter you received,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Someone had written on the sheet of paper above it and left an indentation.’ He fished the printed e-mail from his inside pocket and began to read. ‘“Dear Jill, just a note to thank you for the lunch yesterday. Life has been so difficult since Jenny’s disappearance and it was so thoughtful of you. With warmest regards, Tessa
.
” Your London address is at the top.’

While he was reading she’d buried her face in her hands. But now she looked up, her eyes glazed with tears. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about Jenny. I needed to do something to make you reopen the case.’

‘We’ve never closed it, love,’ Gerry said gently. ‘It’s just that there haven’t been any leads. You really shouldn’t have done this, you know. I could charge you with wasting police time.’

Her eyes widened in alarm. In her desperation, this possibility hadn’t occurred to her.

‘I could charge you but I won’t. Not if you promise never to pull a stunt like this again.’

She nodded vigorously.

He touched her arm. ‘I swear that we haven’t forgotten Jenny. And if anything comes up you’ll be the first to know.’ He gave her what he hoped was a sympathetic smile and stood up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on shall I?’

As he made for the kitchen he was glad some of his colleagues hadn’t been there to see him. There’d always be some who said he was a soft touch.

As Wesley had predicted, it was a soulless chain hotel in some anonymous suburb on the outskirts of Manchester and it was coming up to seven o’clock when they arrived at a reception which resembled a small regional airport check-in area. Two singles. Mr Peterson and Ms Tracey. The girl behind the desk didn’t look much older than sixteen and she made the words sound almost suggestive.

Wesley was slightly surprised to discover that their rooms were adjoining and Rachel gave him a nervous smile as she unlocked her door. After agreeing to meet in the bar at eight, Wesley did likewise and shut his door behind him. He suddenly felt exhausted after a day of driving and interviewing the bereaved. Until now he hadn’t realised how much emotional energy he’d used up.

He called Pam. She sounded cheerful. She’d seen his sister, Maritia, and the new baby and Michael had spent the day at his friend’s. It was impossible to move in town for the bloody festival but, apart from that, all was well in Tradmouth – in the Peterson household at least.

Gerry had called to say that Kassia’s viol had turned up on the medieval ship moored up by the embankment and that the sailor who claimed to have found it – a man called Andre Gorst – had gone AWOL. He’d also pointed out that the ship had been in Tradmouth when Jenny disappeared. Gerry said he’d let him know the minute Gorst returned. It was a promising lead and Wesley wished he was there to follow it up.

Gerry also told him about Mrs Bercival’s deception over the anonymous letters, making excuses for the woman, saying she’d done it out of desperation. He didn’t intend to charge her with wasting police time, not under the circumstances. Wesley agreed with him, although he suspected Rachel probably wouldn’t.

Rachel was waiting in the bar. To Wesley’s surprise she’d changed her clothes, swapped her dark trouser suit for a short skirt and pink T-shirt. She already had a glass of white wine on the table in front of her, almost finished. Wesley brought her up to date with the latest developments in the case before asking if he could get her another drink. She didn’t react as he’d imagined to the news about Mrs Bercival. She made no comment and he knew there was something on her mind. Once they had their drinks in front of them, he asked her if something was wrong. He reckoned he’d known her long enough for the question not to be interpreted as prurient curiosity. He was a concerned friend, that was all.

She took a long sip of wine. ‘I don’t know what to do, Wes.’

He waited for her to continue in her own time.

‘I can’t go through with the wedding. It’s all got out of hand.’

He could see tears forming in her eyes. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I like Nigel. He’s…’ She searched for the right word. ‘Solid. Reliable.’

‘Unimaginative?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ She suddenly sounded defensive.

‘You didn’t have to. Nigel’s a farmer. A practical man. What you see is what you get with Nigel and, believe me, that can be a good thing. I know he’ll do his best to make you happy.’

She drained her glass. Wesley thought that she was drinking too fast. He’d never seen her do that before.

‘Don’t tell me it’s just last minute nerves because —’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Wesley said quickly. The last thing he wanted was an argument.

‘I need another drink.’

‘We should find somewhere to eat.’ He stood up. ‘There’s a place down the road that looks reasonable.’

She didn’t move. She looked up at him and held out her hand. ‘Pam doesn’t know how bloody lucky she is.’ The innocent-sounding words carried an intensity that surprised him.

For a moment he searched for something to say, something to lighten the atmosphere. But everything he came up with either seemed trite or would be guaranteed to make matters worse. He eventually decided on, ‘I’m sure she does. And I’m a lucky man,’ said in a throwaway, half-jocular tone.

‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

‘Let’s get something to eat.’ He began to make for the door, hoping she’d follow. Maybe, he told himself, she just needed to talk things over. But her comment about Pam had made him uncomfortable. The fact that he had once been attracted to Rachel niggled at the conscience honed by the strict moral upbringing provided by his Caribbean parents. It was something he’d chosen to ignore over the years. Perhaps, he thought, he should have brought somebody else with him to Manchester.

He turned and saw that she was following, head bowed. He told himself firmly that he would provide a sympathetic ear. Anything else was out of bounds.

The restaurant, set in the middle of a row of shops, was Italian with laminated menus and Neapolitan love songs belting out from the speakers. The waiters appeared at first sight to be authentic but Wesley harboured the suspicion that once they finished their shifts the Italian accents would disappear and they’d revert to broad Manchester vowels. He ordered a cannelloni and Rachel a linguini dish. She hadn’t taken much time to make her choice, almost as though she’d lighted on the first thing on the menu that caught her eye. She insisted on a bottle of wine to wash it down. As the waiter was hovering by the table, Wesley felt he had no choice but to agree.

Once their food was in front of them, Wesley attempted to return the conversation to work matters, moving on to speculation about the missing sailor Andre Gorst. Jenny and Kassia had an image of the ship tattooed on their shoulders and Gorst had been in possession of Kassia’s viol. He had to be a serious suspect.

Rachel sat playing with her linguini, twisting it to and fro on her fork. ‘He could even be William de Clare,’ she said. ‘We might have found our killer.’

‘So you think Jenny Bercival’s definitely dead?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Jenny and Kassia are both the same physical type,’ he continued. ‘And they both disappeared at the Palkin Festival so I’m becoming more and more convinced that there’s a connection.’ He paused. ‘I get the feeling your mind’s not on this investigation.’

She raised her eyes to his. ‘I don’t know what to do, Wes.’

‘I can’t make up your mind for you. But I’d say that if you’re not certain about the wedding, you shouldn’t go through with it.’

Her eyes lit up with fresh hope. ‘You really think so?’

‘It’s not up to me. It’s about what you want.’ Rachel’s words had sounded a warning. There had been a time once when he’d have found her assumption flattering, even desirable. But since then life had become more settled. He had changed over the years; and so had Pam. He suddenly realised with horror that he might be hurtling headlong towards smug, comfortable middle age.

Rachel pushed her plate away. ‘Let’s go for a drink.’

‘I’ve had enough and we’ve got an early start in the morning. Don’t forget we’re taking Julie Darwell back to Devon. I’ll get the bill.’

He stood up but Rachel remained seated, staring at her glass as though she was willing it to be filled by magic. He waited, uncertain what to do. It hardly seemed appropriate to pull rank. Anyway, it wasn’t really his style.

He remained by the table, unwilling to leave her on her own in a strange place in the state she was in. He recognised the signs, the determination to drown your troubles in a bottle. He’d never seen Rachel like this before and it disturbed him. Eventually he left her sitting there and went to the bar to pay the bill.

When he returned to the table she looked up hopefully. ‘I noticed a pub on the next block. Just one drink?’

Against his better judgement he agreed. Just one. He was about to say ‘then bed’ but he stopped himself, fearing the words would be misinterpreted. As they walked to the bar she linked her arm through his. He felt the pressure of her hand as she gave his arm a squeeze. The natural gesture between friends didn’t seem right somehow. Or maybe it did, and that was why his heart was pounding.

Jason Teague felt resentful that there was still no sign of Den Dobbs. Someone had spotted the
Queen Philipp
a near where the girl’s body was found and Den had left him to deal with the fallout. It wasn’t part of their agreement.

It was getting late and he’d tried Den’s mobile number countless times, always getting his voice mail. He’d lost track of how many messages he’d left.

He left the comfort of the Tradmouth Arms and began to stroll along the embankment. News of the murder was everywhere but it hadn’t disrupted the festival. Why should it? The festival-goers hadn’t known her. She was nothing to them. But he’d seen the small pile of cellophane-wrapped flowers left at the embankment end of the jetty as a tribute. Somebody had noted her violent death. Somebody had cared.

His mobile rang and he stopped, taking it out of his pocket. His fingers felt clumsy all of a sudden and he almost dropped the thing.

He looked at the display and smiled to himself: this was the call he was waiting for. After a brief conversation he turned to his left and headed towards the Memorial Gardens, pushing his way through the crowd, making for his mate Jonathan’s office. He needed to charter a boat for the next day.

Rosie Heffernan had begged her brother not to let on to their dad that she was staying with him. But Sam reckoned that if Rosie was in trouble then summoning help could hardly be a betrayal of trust. And their father was a DCI so he was used to sorting out problems.

However Sam decided to delay making the call until he heard what Rosie had to say for herself.

When he got back to the cottage at nine she was there in the living room, sitting on the sofa watching something inane on the TV. She looked round as she heard the door shut and smiled.

‘When’s Freya due back?’

‘She’s not. As from today she’s on nights.’

‘I thought I might have driven her away.’ She didn’t sound at all repentant about the possibility.

‘Not at all. But when are you going back to your flat?’

‘Maybe tomorrow.’

‘Look, if someone’s bothering you, you should let Dad know.’

‘And have him fussing about? I can take care of myself.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, I went to a rehearsal today and everything was fine so I’ve probably been panicking for nothing.’

‘What are you planning to do once half term’s over and you’re back at school? You can’t hide forever.’

‘I won’t have to,’ she said with confidence. ‘He’ll have gone by then. There’s another Palkin’s Musik concert tomorrow night. Will you meet me afterwards.’

Sam sighed. From childhood she’d always been able to persuade him to do things against his better judgement, playing on his fears and sympathy. He knew he’d do as she asked. He didn’t have a choice because if anything happened to her he couldn’t live with himself.

‘Who is it, Rosie? Who are you scared of?’

For the first time in years he saw his sister burst into tears.

Neil had carefully uncovered the second skeleton the evening before, each stage being recorded for posterity by the photographer and an officer taking video footage. Colin Bowman had come to view the skeletons and in Neil’s opinion Sacha Vale had been quite rude to him. She was full of herself, he thought. What was worse, she probably believed her own publicity.