The Shroud Maker (31 page)

Wesley smiled to himself. Neil had always had great faith in Annabel, who worked in the archives in Exeter and was the daughter of an honourable who mixed in county circles. There had been times when Wesley thought that the pair might be made for each other in spite of the wide social chasm between them. Sometimes, however, sex can spoil things.

‘There’s an interesting bit at the end about Palkin’s death,’ Neil said, leaning over to turn the pages. ‘Listen.’ He picked up the book, held it in front of him and cleared his throat.

‘“In 1404 John Palkin was sixty-six years old and had recently organised the defeat of a Breton army which mounted an invasion at Whitepool Sands in retaliation for Palkin’s raids upon Breton ports. It is not known whether Palkin himself fought in the skirmish which saw hundreds of Bretons killed or taken prisoner with few English casualties. King Henry IV himself congratulated him on his victory and gave tacit support to his continuing privateering activities. Later that year Palkin married his fourth wife, who was at least forty years his junior, and it was his bitter jealousy of his young bride that brought about his demise. His brother, Henry, told him that his bride was entertaining a lover in the bedchamber of his house by the waterfront. Palkin set up a ladder to look into the window and catch her in the act of lovemaking but he lost his footing and fell to the ground. He died but in the days following his funeral, which was conducted with great pomp in St Margaret’s Church, several citizens of Tradmouth claimed to have seen his bloodied corpse walking the streets. His grave in the chancel of the church was opened and a stake driven through his heart. From that moment on all sightings of John Palkin ceased.”’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘So Tradmouth had its very own vampire.’

‘Amazing what rubbish people will believe.’

Wesley said nothing for a while. Then he spoke. ‘What became of the widow and her lover? Any idea who he was, by the way?’

‘Palkin-Wright doesn’t say.’

‘And it’s possible that he only existed in John Palkin’s imagination. Or his brother, Henry’s. Maybe he was trying to stir up trouble.’

‘Trust you to look for complications. I’ll contact Annabel again and ask her what she can find out about Palkin’s death,’ said Neil as he poured himself another glass of wine.

After spending the previous night in the cells sleeping on a hard blue plastic mattress, Andre Gorst felt good walking down the embankment with the salt breeze on his face. After returning to the
Maudelayne
for a change of clothes, avoiding the captain who was prone to ask too many questions at the best of times, he had washed in the public showers next to the toilets in the park, thoughtfully provided by the harbour authorities for visiting yachtsmen, and spent the evening in the Star. Shortly after ten thirty he set off in the darkness to do the business that had been on his mind since his arrest. It would be easy money; and God knows he needed some of that.

He’d seen his quarry earlier that day, alone and vulnerable. It had only taken a few words and it was arranged. Gorst’s silence would be assured for a sum of his choosing. A reasonable amount. He wasn’t a greedy man.

A thin veil of drizzle meant that the embankment was almost deserted. This was the meeting that would buy him a few of life’s luxuries: things to lure women into his web at his next port of call. Love them and leave them. Use them and leave them wanting more. He’d had a narrow escape with Rosie Heffernan and he cursed her for not telling him her dad was a senior police officer. Still, it had worked out all right in the end.

In the yellow light trickling from the lampposts that lined the waterfront he could see a figure approaching, carrying a plastic carrier bag as arranged. This was his chance.

Gorst planned to count the money there and then because you can never trust anybody, especially a murderer. He walked forward and held out his hand to take the bag but the figure hugged it protectively.

‘How can I trust you?’ The question was hissed.

Gorst didn’t answer. ‘Is it all there?’

The figure suddenly held the bag aloft and began to back away, teetering on the water’s edge. Even though the tide was high it was a long way down into the dark, oily water.

The figure turned and began to walk away and Gorst had no choice but to follow.

‘If you don’t pay up, I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them what I saw.’

‘Why would they believe you?’

‘They will. I saw you put that violin case in the bushes.’

The figure began to swing the bag. It looked heavy – too heavy to contain the paper money that had been promised. The figure twisted the thin plastic of the handle around its hand, drew back its arm and, before Gorst could dodge out of the way, the bag made contact with his head.

Gorst fell to his knees, startled. Whatever was in that bag was indeed heavy and he felt something hot run down his face: his own blood. He raised his hands in defence against the onslaught.

But it was useless. The blows came fast, raining down on his knuckles and his skull, sending him sprawling, dazed, on to the cobbles. He was at the edge now, looking down into the black water.

The next blow sent him tumbling over the harbour wall. Then came the darkness.

Wesley awoke the next morning with a headache. He knew it was from simple lack of sleep because he’d lain awake thinking about the case; about the child who’d claimed to have seen Eric Darwell with John Palkin. The trouble was, searching for Palkin lookalikes in Tradmouth at that moment when the festival was about to reach its climax would be like looking for a blade of grass in a field. He took a couple of paracetamol tablets with his breakfast coffee and by the time he was ready to leave the house his headache was almost gone.

When he arrived at the station he found that Gerry had got there before him and was trawling his way through a pile of paperwork with a martyred expression on his face.

‘Neil had a visit from Chris Butcher’s wife last night,’ Wesley began before going on to give Gerry a quick résumé of the previous night’s events.

Gerry pushed the paperwork to one side and sat forward, interested. ‘In that case it might be worth having another word with Mrs Butcher. Hell hath no fury and all that. If she’s jealous of anyone her husband has a fling with, that could include Kassia and Jenny. Not that I’d blame her. Can’t be easy being married to a Lothario.’

Wesley smiled. ‘Lothario. That’s a deliciously old-fashioned word, Gerry.’

‘Good one though,’ Gerry said with a wink.

‘I have got one bit of encouraging news. The dating’s not come through on those bones yet but there’s evidence that they predate the late nineteen forties.’ He went on to relate what Neil had told him about the builder’s discovery. Gerry looked relieved.

‘At least that’s one less thing to worry about. I was afraid it might have been Jenny and some other poor lass.’ He sighed. ‘Doesn’t help us find her though, does it.’

Wesley returned to his desk and sat staring at the picture of Kassia pinned up on the noticeboard, ignoring the pile of reports awaiting his attention. Suffolk police had concluded that her parents’ death had been a tragic accident; even so, Wesley was still bothered by the report of the argument overheard by a couple on a nearby boat a few hours before the Graylems died. He searched round his desk for the file on the accident and when he found it he noted the couple’s contact details. One of the DCs had already spoken to them but there were things he wanted to clarify.

When the phone was answered by a woman who confirmed that she was Mrs Betham, he apologised for bothering her again.

The first thing Mrs Betham asked was whether they’d caught Kassia’s killer. She remembered her quite well. Such a pretty girl. Her and her father used to busk in the town centre sometimes. She’d had a beautiful voice.

‘We’re following a number of leads,’ Wesley said noncommittally. ‘You said you heard the Graylems arguing that morning. Did they often argue?’

‘Oh no. I never heard them rowing with each other. They were very… Bohemian, if you know what I mean, but they seemed to get on well.’

‘So tell me about this argument you overheard?’

‘It was about an hour before Jake Graylem took the boat out that morning. A few hours before the explosion. I heard raised voices and I’m sure one of them was Jake but I’m not sure who the other person was.’

‘Could Mr Graylem have been arguing with his wife or daughter?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’

‘Did you hear what was said?’

‘Not really. I only caught a few words. I think he said something like, “I can’t trust you. I don’t want you on board.” But I can’t swear to it.’

‘I believe a yacht belonging to a family called Wentworth was moored next to the Graylems’ boat.’

There was a silence on the other end of the line. ‘That’s right. But they’d sailed off before the explosion.’

‘Can you tell me about the Wentworths?’

‘They had a very flashy yacht. I think the father was a barrister or something. He wasn’t exactly friendly.’

‘Who was on their boat?’

‘It was just Mr Wentworth and his son. He was a good-looking lad. They didn’t seem to have much in common with the Graylems but he used to chat up Kassia, which is hardly surprising, I suppose. I didn’t really speak to the boy but…’

‘But what?’

‘I got the impression he was an arrogant little pup. Though I might be misjudging him. But I’ll tell you one thing: the father had a hell of a temper. I used to hear him yelling at the boy and —’

‘Could he be the one who was arguing with Jake Graylem?’

Mrs Betham hesitated before replying. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘Can you remember the boy’s name?’

Mrs Betham apologised again. She really couldn’t recall.

Wesley thanked her and rang off. He was about to ask someone to make tracing the Wentworths a priority when Paul came rushing up to his desk.

‘You know that kid said she’d seen Eric Darwell with Palkin? We’ve got someone dressed as Palkin on CCTV from a newsagent’s near the holiday park at the relevant time. Come and see.’

Wesley followed him into the AV room where DC Nick Tarnaby was sitting going through footage; it was a tedious job but someone had to do it. He leaned over Nick’s shoulder but the man didn’t look round. The indistinct monochrome image on the screen was of someone striding past the shop in full medieval dress, the battered briefcase he was carrying striking an incongruous note. He looked portly but the costume could well have been padded and it was hard to gauge the height. He wore a velvet cap on his head and a false beard concealed his features.

This was no use at all. For all they knew, it could even have been a woman.

The young man aboard the ferry was crossing the river from Queenswear to Tradmouth dressed in a Robin Hood costume he’d acquired for a fancy dress party a couple of years before. He was leaning over the side, anticipating a boozy meeting with his mates at the Palkin Festival, when he spotted the body floating face downward.

As soon as the ferry reached the quayside the police were called and eventually the body was hauled into the launch to be taken back to dry land, watched by curious onlookers.

They assumed that it was somebody who’d been carousing at the festival, had too much to drink and fallen in. It happened every year. The river liked to claim a life, to feed on living flesh to keep up its strength.

Trish entered Gerry’s office, brimming with untold news. Wesley stood beside Gerry and waited for her to speak.

‘The captain of the
Maudelayne
called to say that Andre Gorst has gone missing.’ Wesley could see her cheeks redden, as if she’d suddenly recalled Gorst’s link with the boss’s daughter and feared she’d said something tactless.

‘Anything else?’

‘The police launch picked up a body an hour ago. Man who fits Gorst’s description. He’s been taken to Tradmouth Hospital.’

‘Suspicious?’

‘Not sure yet.’

Wesley and Gerry looked at each other. ‘We’ll get someone from the ship to identify the body and see what Colin has to say about the cause of death,’ said Gerry. He went out briefly to give orders to a couple of the younger DCs who scurried off.

Wesley’s mind was working. He hadn’t believed Gorst’s claim that he hadn’t seen who’d dumped the viol. On the other hand, he couldn’t think why he should lie. A possibility was forming in his head; even so, he’d wait to hear Colin’s verdict before sharing it with Gerry.

Trish was still hovering in the doorway. She hadn’t finished yet. ‘There’s something else. Scientific Support have found deleted e-mails about Shipworld on Miles Carthage’s computer. They’re from Palkinson, all about Lady Alicia in the boat and later being buried in Palkin’s warehouse. There’s also stuff about a Lady Morwenna being imprisoned for her sins in the Cave of Adron. The interesting thing is that it seems to be Carthage who’s thinking up the plot, not Palkinson. He’s just writing the text to Carthage’s instructions and sending the material through for his approval.’

‘That’s not what Butcher told us. Do we have an address for Palkinson?’

‘Yes. His name’s Peter Joss.’ She paused. ‘The address is Bolton Hall. Same as Kassia Graylem’s.’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. This was a complete surprise and there was only one possibility that he could see. Peter Joss was Kassia’s housemate, Pixie. After all, nobody’s christened Pixie and, as he hadn’t come under suspicion, they’d never taken the trouble to learn his real name when they’d interviewed him.