The Shroud Maker (29 page)

The e-mail attachment didn’t appear too promising at first. A list of staff and students at London University while Kassia Graylem and Jenny Bercival had been studying there. As far as Paul could see, there seemed to be rather a lot of them and there were courses whose titles were a complete mystery to him.

It wasn’t until he went through the list, searching for familiar names, that he noticed something interesting.

Jenny and Kassia were there all right, Jenny studying English and Kassia history as expected. But it was a name on the list of staff that stood out. Dr Daniel Hungerford, who now worked at Morbay University, had at that time been teaching in London.

With Kassia’s musical talent, it was hard to believe that he hadn’t come across her at some point, even if he’d never actually taught her. When Paul dug a little further he discovered that as a student she’d played in an early music group directed by Dr Daniel Hungerford, yet he’d claimed that he hadn’t met her until he saw her busking in Neston.

It was a discrepancy. And Paul didn’t like discrepancies. He hurried to Gerry Heffernan’s office to share the news.

The previous night Dan Hungerford had been close to becoming Gerry’s new best friend. His daughter’s rescuer, Wesley knew, had shot up in the DCI’s estimation for less than twenty-four hours before the status quo had been restored with Paul’s new discovery.

Hungerford lived in Morbay, in one half of a nineteenth-century stucco villa on the hillside overlooking the harbour. Once the house had been home to a single family but after the Second World War it had been divided in two to accommodate the needs of the servantless classes. Hungerford occupied the less impressive half of the house while his neighbour enjoyed the grand front door and the sweeping oak staircase. The police pounded on the plain wooden door round the side of the building that used to be the servants’ entrance.

Hungerford looked calm when he answered the door, as though he was expecting to give a routine statement about his rescue of Rosie Heffernan. And when the two uniformed officers told him that he needed to go with them to the police station to be interviewed, he seemed unconcerned. Anything to help the police put away the man who’d been making Rosie’s life a misery, he said in the half-eager, half-nervous tone of the helpful citizen, but he had a concert that evening so he couldn’t be long. The officers made no comment as they put him in the back of the patrol car and shut the door.

In view of his previous dealings with Hungerford, it was decided that Gerry shouldn’t conduct the interview. Instead he watched from behind the two-way mirror while Wesley and Paul sat down opposite Hungerford and started the tape running. He had declined the offer of a solicitor. As far as Wesley could tell, Hungerford still had no idea what the interview was all about. He felt optimistic that the element of surprise would work in his favour.

Wesley placed the printed lists provided by the university in front of Hungerford, who stared down at them with a puzzled frown.

‘You admit you taught at London University before you came to Morbay?’

‘Of course. It’s hardly a crime.’

‘We’ve obtained a list of students who were at the university during the time you were there. There are two familiar names on the list. Kassia Graylem and Jenny Bercival.’

Hungerford froze for a split second. If Wesley hadn’t been watching him so closely, he might not have noticed. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘According to university records, Kassia was a member of an early music group in her first year. A group you set up.’

Hungerford said nothing.

‘So when you saw her busking in Neston you already knew her.’

‘I’ve dealt with so many students over the years. I can’t remember them all.’

‘But Kassia was talented. And beautiful. Not easy to forget. Ever been married?’

Hungerford raised his eyebrows and shook his head. ‘If you must know, I’m gay. My partner’s abroad at the moment so I’m able to devote all my energies to Palkin’s Musik.’

‘When we first interviewed you why didn’t you tell us you’d known Kassia before you met her in Neston?’

He bowed his head. ‘OK, it was stupid of me but I didn’t think it was relevant. And I didn’t want to be a suspect. Palkin’s Musik takes up all my time and I really can’t afford to sit through hours of questioning. Besides, I don’t have any information that might help you catch her killer. Look, for a few months she was in an early music group I set up but she left so I didn’t get to know her that well.’

‘Why did she leave?’

‘I’m not sure. But there was talk that she’d become involved with some man.’

‘Do you know anything about him?’

‘No. But one day she turned up for a concert in the dress she wore for… the one she was found in. I overheard one of the other girls asking her where she got it and she said she’d met a wonderful man who bought it for her.’

‘Did she mention the name William de Clare?’

He shook his head. ‘As I said, I didn’t know her well back then. When I met her in Neston I did ask if she was still seeing the man and she said sometimes. But I had the impression she didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he’s married.’

‘Did she ever mention John Palkin? Or Shipworld? Or Chris Butcher?’

‘No.’

‘Does the name Eric Darwell mean anything to you?’

‘Isn’t he the man who was found dead at that holiday park?’

‘That’s right. How come you know about it?’

‘Because it’s been splashed all over the local media. It’s hard to miss.’

Wesley was aware that Gerry was watching behind the mirror. He could imagine him signalling frantically, wanting him to keep pressing.’

‘You must have seen Kassia every day in the time leading up to her death. Did you get the impression that something was worrying her?’

‘She did seem to have something on her mind. But don’t ask me what it was.’

‘Did she ever mention Miles Carthage? He’s an artist. She was posing for him.’

‘The name’s not familiar.’

‘Do you know anything about her tattoo? The one of the ship?’

‘No.’

‘I understand John Palkin used the symbol to mark his property. What about Jenny Bercival?’

‘Who?’

‘She was studying at London University when you were teaching there.’

‘So were thousands of people. It’s a big place. As far as I know I never came across her.’

‘Where were you at the time of Kassia’s death?’

‘I’ve already given a statement and I’ve nothing to add to it. I didn’t kill Kassia and I’ve no idea who did.’ He leaned forward. ‘And why would I kill her? I hardly knew her. And besides, she was a key member of Palkin’s Musik and her… absence has caused us major problems. Can I go now?’

Wesley looked at his watch. Hungerford hadn’t told the whole truth about knowing Kassia before Palkin’s Musik. And they only had his word for it that he was gay and his partner conveniently abroad. He gave the man a businesslike smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Hungerford. You’re free to go but we may need to speak to you again.’

‘It’s Dr Hungerford. Not Mr.’

Hungerford left the room without looking back, hurrying purposefully, as if he was late for another engagement. Maybe the man had been telling the truth; or maybe he knew more about Kassia’s death than he was admitting.

Neil had decided to take a break from digging and, after washing his hands in the bungalow’s brown-and-cream bathroom, he began to study the book Butcher had left with him. He had only just opened it when one of the student volunteers, a buxom lass with scarlet hair, poked her head round the door.

‘Someone to see you, Neil. Wants to talk to the person in charge.’

Neil put the book down carefully. ‘Who is it?’

‘Old bloke. I’ve seen him hanging around. He says it’s important.’

The girl vanished and returned a minute later with the man Neil had started to think of as the Ancient Mariner. Close up he looked older than Neil first thought; probably in his eighties with a gnarled face that spoke of a life spent out of doors in all weathers. The man took off his greasy Breton cap as if he was coming into the presence of royalty and shuffled his feet.

Neil stood up and stretched out his hand. The man looked surprised but took it. Although his hand felt cold his handshake was surprisingly firm.

‘I’m Neil Watson, the site director. What can I do for you?’

The man didn’t answer and when Neil invited him to sit, he perched on the edge of a dining chair, as if preparing to flee if necessary.

‘I’ve seen you around… taking an interest,’ Neil began. ‘Would you like to see what we’ve found?’ He was searching for a way to break the ice.

After a few seconds the man spoke. ‘My dad built this place, you know. There was an old boathouse on the site and when the land was sold the new owners wanted a nice bungalow.’

‘Where exactly was the boathouse?’

‘Not sure. But it was quite big. Rickety old wooden thing it was. Must have been there for years.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s where he found the bones.’

Neil sat forward, all attention. ‘Go on.’

‘He came across ’em when he were digging a drain and covered ’em up again right away. I read in the local paper that you’d found ’em.’

‘That’s right. When exactly did your dad find them?’

‘A few years after the war it were. Didn’t want no trouble, that’s why he put ’em back.’

Neil was about to say that the police thought they might have uncovered a pair of recent murder victims but something stopped him. It had taken a lot for this man to reveal what he knew and, at his age, he didn’t need a hard time. ‘Why didn’t you come forward earlier?’

‘Didn’t think you’d be interested. Not till I saw in the paper that the coppers were asking questions. Then I didn’t want to get into any trouble.’

‘You’re not in any trouble, don’t worry.’

‘Do I have to go to the police?’

‘I’ll see to that. Look, I don’t know your name.’

‘Jack Petigrew.’ He looked around. ‘My dad were proud of this bungalow. I’ve not been inside since it were finished. They’ll not knock it down, will they?’

‘I think he plans to modernise it.’

‘Who?’

‘Man called Chris Butcher. Made his fortune from the internet.’

Petigrew looked perplexed by the mention of modern technology.

‘Did you follow in your dad’s footsteps and become a builder too?’ Neil asked, making conversation.

The man nodded. ‘Yes, but I’ve been retired nearly twenty years. I’d better be off.’

‘You’ve been very helpful. Thanks.’

Jack Petigrew shuffled out but when he reached the door he turned. ‘This was the site of Palkin’s house, you know. Makes you wonder what he was doing burying skeletons, doesn’t it.’

Before Neil could answer he’d gone and Neil’s phone was ringing. It was Sacha. She was talking in a low voice, almost husky. He had heard her speak like that before on TV when she said pieces to camera, taking the unseen audience into her confidence.

‘I’m still waiting for the dating results and I’ve ordered stable isotope tests to be done on the skeletons’ teeth to discover where the women grew up.’

‘Good. I’ve just had some news. The skeletons were found by a builder back in the late nineteen forties and reburied, which explains the disturbance to the ground. We can rule out the possibility that they’re recent murder victims.’

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as though he’d just stolen Sacha’s thunder. ‘That’s as may be,’ she said peevishly. ‘But I still stand by my original opinion that they were both murdered. There’s dark staining to the facial bones of the first skull which suggests asphyxia and there’s a nick in the ribs of the second skeleton, probably a knife wound.’

‘I might have an idea who they are.’

‘Well?’ He’d like to think she sounded impressed but it was probably just surprise.

‘According to a book Chris Butcher lent me, John Palkin had two wives who disappeared. They were supposed to have died in parishes some way away but there’s no record of their burial in either place.’

He’d assumed that Sacha’s antennae for publicity would tell her that this medieval murder mystery was a potentially good story for one of her TV slots. Who could resist? But she said nothing and it occurred to him that Butcher might already have shared this gem of information. It might be old news.