The Shroud Maker (28 page)

‘Sacha about?’

Neil could tell the inquiry wasn’t altogether casual. ‘I’ve got her on the phone. No date for the bones yet.’

Butcher asked if he could have a word with Sacha and as soon as Neil handed his phone over, the man disappeared with it into the house to talk in private. He was so transparent, Neil thought. It was Astrid he felt sorry for.

Five minutes later Butcher emerged and handed the phone back to Neil with a muttered thanks. He looked flushed.

‘I’ve got something to show you,’ Butcher said, holding up the briefcase. ‘Can we go inside?’

Neil led the way into the living room where he cleared a space on the cluttered dining table, dusting it down with a tea towel he fetched from the kitchen.

From his briefcase Butcher took out a box which contained a small tattered book in a dirty red cloth binding. ‘This is the book I mentioned.
The Sea Devil
by Josiah Palkin-Wright. He lived in Tradmouth and became so obsessed with Palkin that he changed his name to Palkin-Wright. He claimed he was a descendant although there’s no evidence to back that up. Judging by the book he had access to records I haven’t managed to locate. I’ll leave it with you. Look after it, won’t you.’

‘Sure.’

‘The more I think about it, the more certain I am that those bones belong to Palkin’s wives, Alice and Hawise.’

‘You mentioned it before. What’s your evidence?’

‘In the book Palkin-Wright refers to a letter from John Palkin to a William Petrie in the village of Whitely.’

Butcher turned the pages carefully until he came to the right one. Neil took the book from him and read. From the tone of the correspondence he guessed that Petrie might be some sort of steward or bailiff. The letter asked whether his wife, the lady Alice, was still in residence.

The reply was there too. ‘Most worshipful lord, you prayed and required me to tell you if my lady was still at the house. I fear that my lord has received false news for my lady has never visited here since last Martinmas
.
’

‘Is there more?’ Neil asked eagerly.

‘Yes. A couple of pages later there’s a reference to one from Palkin to the mayor complaining that there were scurrilous rumours circulating about the absence of his wife when he knew she had passed away at her manor at Whitely. The two strands of correspondence seem to contradict each other, don’t you think?’

Neil sat back in his chair and looked at Butcher. ‘So let me get this right. First of all Palkin’s wife disappears and he puts a lot of effort into claiming that she died while she was at this manor in Whitely. But a few weeks before he’d written to Petrie to ask if his wife was there and receives a reply that she hadn’t been there in months. Why would he do that?’

‘The funny thing is, in thirteen ninety-three he marries for a third time and his wife, Hawise, has a son who dies. Then in thirteen ninety-six she disappears from the records too. According to Palkin-Wright there’s no mention in any local church archives of masses being said for her soul, as would be expected for someone of her status.’ Butcher looked out of the window.

‘But if he did away with them and buried them under the floor of his warehouse, why would he write to Petrie? He sounds worried in his letter.’

‘Trying to cover his tracks?’

‘And don’t forget the ground’s been disturbed which suggests the burials could be more recent.’ He paused. ‘These letters – do they still exist? Has anyone seen them?’

‘I’ve spoken to a friend of yours who works in the archives in Exeter – a very helpful lady called Annabel.’

Neil grinned. ‘How is she?’

‘She sends you her love. I asked her about the letters and she says there’s no trace of them anywhere. Which means they’ve either vanished since Palkin-Wright saw them or…’

‘He made the whole thing up for the sake of a good story. What happened to him?’

‘He became a recluse after his housekeeper died – according to rumours at the time, they were very close – and he died in nineteen eighteen during the influenza epidemic.’ He glanced at the Rolex on his left wrist. ‘I’ve got to go.’

As Butcher hurried away, Neil was left staring at the copy of
The Sea Devil
. But before he could open it he heard Dave calling his name. He was needed out on the site.

‘The custody sergeant says Gorst’s been asking to see you,’ said Wesley. ‘Says he has information about Kassia Graylem’s murder.’

‘Do I smell a confession?’

‘You never know your luck. How’s Rosie?’

‘OK… I think.’ Gerry stared at the paperwork on his desk. ‘She’s decided not to press charges, you know.’

‘Why?’

‘Says she just wants to forget the whole thing. Put it behind her.’

‘If he’s our man, she could have been his next victim.’

Gerry’s hand formed a fist. ‘I don’t need you to tell me that, Wes.’

Wesley bowed his head. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stated the obvious and reminded Gerry of his daughter’s vulnerability. If things had gone differently, he might now be identifying her body in Colin Bowman’s mortuary.

‘Will you talk to Gorst, Wes? I don’t think I can trust myself. Sorry to land you with the pleasure of his company but…’

‘No problem.’

Wesley looked through Gerry’s window at the outer office. He could see Rachel watching him and it was hard to read her expression. When they’d brought Carthage back to the station to give his statement she’d hardly spoken, apart to share her opinion that the man was weird.

He rang down to the custody suite and requested that Gorst should be brought up from the cells before asking Rachel to sit in on the interview. She pushed her paperwork to one side and stood up, avoiding his eyes. Was it going to be like this from now on: the awkwardness; the embarrassed distance? He led the way down the stairs, saying nothing.

Gorst was waiting for him, having declined the services of the duty solicitor. Either he was confident of his own powers of persuasion or he knew a solicitor would make little difference. From his experience of the criminal mind, Wesley suspected the first. He looked up as they walked in and focused his eyes on Rachel, taking in every curve of her body.

To Wesley, the prisoner’s medieval costume made the meeting feel slightly surreal, as if a ruffian from the age of Chaucer had been beamed forward in time and, instead of facing the pillory or the hangman, had become subject to the gentler justice of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.

‘I have to tell you that Ms Heffernan isn’t pressing charges,’ Wesley said, the words sticking in his throat.

The response was a satisfied smile and a wink in Rachel’s direction. She turned her head away.

‘Why should she press charges? She never complained when things got a bit rough before. She enjoyed it,’ he added with a knowing leer. Wesley glared at him, glad that Gerry had decided to stay out of it.

‘You say you have some information.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s about the instrument I found in the bushes. I saw someone dump it there.’

‘Who?’

He didn’t answer.

‘So tell us what happened.’

‘I was on my way back to the ship around eight on Saturday morning after spending the night with Rosie and I saw someone throw the case into the bushes. I brought it back to the ship because I thought I might be able to sell it. Make a bit of cash.’

‘Who did you see?’ Rachel asked.

Gorst looked from one to the other, aware of the power he held. ‘It was just a dark figure. Might have been a man. But on the other hand it might have been a woman.’

Wesley glanced at Rachel. Neither of them believed a word of it. But as Rosie had confirmed that he’d been with her until seven thirty on the morning of Kassia’s death and wasn’t willing to press charges concerning the assault, they didn’t have grounds to hold him.

‘Can I go now?’

Wesley looked at his watch. Unless they applied for an extension they had to release him soon anyway.

‘We might need to speak to you again. Don’t leave town, will you?’ he said as he stood up.

‘No chance of that. We’re in port until after the festival’s over. Nice doing business with you.’ He held out his hand but Wesley turned his back on him.

‘What do you think?’ he asked Rachel as they climbed the stairs back to the CID office.

‘He’s hiding something. Kassia was in Palkin’s Musik so if he was involved with Rosie, who’s to say he hadn’t been trying it on with her as well.’

Wesley knew she could well be right.

Wesley made his way back to the incident room and found Gerry in his office.

When he reported his interview with Andre Gorst, he was careful to omit any mention of Rosie. But the fact that she’d provided Gorst with an alibi of sorts made the connection difficult to ignore, especially now he’d come up with this story about seeing someone drop the viol into the bushes. He’d said it could have been a woman; Wesley suspected this was an attempt at misdirection. On the other hand, if he was innocent, why lie?

‘Pity about the prints on the viol,’ said Gerry.

‘Someone wiped it clean before Gorst touched it, which suggests his story might be true.’

Gerry snorted and began to fidget with a paperclip, deep in thought.

All Wesley’s instincts told him not to trust Gorst. But perhaps he was just prejudiced. And prejudice clouds the judgement.

‘If he’s going back to the
Maudelayne
, we know where to find him,’ Wesley said.

Gerry picked up a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve just been looking at Miles Carthage’s statement. What did you make of him?’

‘Strange. He makes me uneasy.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure that he’s entirely in touch with reality.’

‘Is he a possible for our murder?’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t rule him out. Kassia was his muse. He was obsessed with painting her. If she put a stop to it for some reason…’ He paused. ‘He said he saw her near the jetty where the
Queen Philippa
’s moored.’

‘Believe him?’

‘It’s worth following up.’

‘In that case I think we should have another word with Jason Teague and Dennis Dobbs.’ Gerry scratched his head. ‘Dobbs is in custody over at Bloxham but Teague’s out on bail, staying at his mate’s flat in Tradmouth. Why don’t we go and rattle his cage? I’ve asked someone to check on the mate, by the way. His name’s Jonathan Petworth and he seems to be an upstanding member of society. Married to a farmer’s daughter.’

Wesley glanced out of the window at Rachel. He caught her eye and she looked away. ‘That doesn’t mean he can’t have criminal tendencies.’

‘It means he’s got a stake in local society so he has a lot to lose. And besides, we’ve got absolutely nothing on him. Not even a whisper of anything dodgy.’

They left the station and skirted the temporary fairground where parents and children sampled the shabby delights of the carousel and the helter-skelter. The scarier rides, Wesley noticed, were virtually empty but they’d come into their own in the evening when the teenagers poured in.

They soon found themselves at the offices of Tradmouth Charters Ltd which occupied the ground floor of a stone former warehouse. The building had once stood by the waterside before the citizens of Tradmouth had indulged in some major land reclamation during the reign of Queen Victoria, around the time Josiah Palkin-Wright was writing his biography of the man he claimed was his illustrious ancestor.

The warehouse Neil was excavating might well have resembled something like this in its heyday, overlooking the water with tall doors on each floor so that goods could be lifted straight off the ships. Whoever had converted this ancient warehouse into a modern office building had preserved the hoists which protruded from the upper floors. However all the doors and windows had been replaced with sparkling glass and the overall effect was pleasing.

Jason Teague was sitting at a pale wood desk not far from the entrance. He was typing something into a computer and he looked bored. Perhaps, Wesley thought, he was finding it hard to settle to a life ashore after his nomadic existence. Gerry had often told him how difficult it was for a sailor to settle for life ashore once the lure of the sea had seeped into the blood.

‘Can we have a word?’ Gerry said as he walked in.

Jason looked up and Wesley saw a flash of alarm in his eyes. ‘I’ve already told you everything. I had no idea what Den was up to.’

‘This isn’t about Dobbs,’ said Gerry. ‘We want to talk to you about Kassia Graylem.’

‘I told you, I never met her.’

‘Your mate Dobbs found her body in a dinghy floating by the
Queen Philippa
and we now have a witness who saw her walking near the jetty early on the morning of her death.’

Jason sighed. ‘I don’t know anything about that. I wasn’t there. What about Den? What does he say?’

‘That he spent the night playing poker aboard the
Maudelayne
. That’s been checked out too. Trouble is, people sometimes lie to us.’

Jason Teague raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s hardly my fault, is it.’

DC Paul Johnson had heard it said that many cases were solved by routine paperwork; sifting through reports, statements and even CCTV; wading through irrelevant facts to get at the golden nugget. The knack was to recognise the nugget when it turned up on your desk amongst all the dross.