The Shroud Maker (39 page)

‘It’s all over,’ Wesley said quietly. ‘You’ll have to come with me now, Rory.’

‘I don’t have to do anything.’ Wentworth held the thing up and pointed it at Wesley. ‘This is a flare. If you don’t want your face burned off I advise you to get ashore and let me cast off.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

Wentworth began to unfasten something on the flare. Then he stepped forward, brandishing it like a sabre, his eyes alight with amused hatred.

‘This won’t do you any good, Rory.’

As Wentworth took another step forward, his foot came into contact with a coil of rope and as he stumbled there was a sudden roar and a blinding flash of light as the flare ignited, engulfing him in a red flame. Wesley watched, mesmerised, as the man staggered to the edge of the deck and hurled himself into the water, blazing like a fireball.

Wesley knew he should have been pleased about the arrest of Rory Wentworth and the fact that he’d been rushed to the burns unit at Tradmouth Hospital. But he kept thinking of Gerry and experiencing a pain that verged on the physical, a sort of aching in the heart and the stomach. He called the hospital but they would only say that Gerry was being assessed. When he eventually got through to Rachel she fell silent on the other end of the line before promising to make the necessary calls to Rosie, Sam and Joyce.

As soon as he’d seen Wentworth into the ambulance he’d walked back to the
Queen Philippa
which had now been dressed overall in crime-scene tape. He felt numb. Unable to think. Unable to pray for Gerry’s life.

That evening Wesley stood at the window of the CID office watching the fireworks light up the sky, a fine display to celebrate John Palkin’s life. In other circumstances he’d be enjoying the spectacle. But as it was the brilliant fountains of light, reflected like flashing diamonds in the smooth, dark river, only reminded him of Rory Wentworth who was now conscious and, according to the hospital, not in any danger. Rarely had Wesley felt so much hatred for a suspect and he feared that he’d find it hard to maintain the necessary professional distance. On the other hand he needed to speak to the man. He needed to get him put away where he could never hurt anybody ever again.

He heard one of the DCs say that he’d like ten minutes alone with the suspect. Wesley half-heartedly scolded him, saying he could understand his anger but everything had to be done by the book if they were to secure a conviction some clever lawyer couldn’t help him wriggle out of.

He’d rung Morbay Hospital twice but they were noncommittal. Mr Heffernan was stable and about to undergo surgery. Wesley didn’t derive much comfort from the news. He knew that stable could mean anything.

When the call came to say that Wentworth was up to being interviewed, he stood up, his hands tightened into fists. Rachel said something he couldn’t quite make out and when he turned round he saw that she was looking at him. Her eyes were puffy, as though she’d been crying.

‘Do you want me to come with you to interview Wentworth?’ she asked, her voice hushed, as though she was in a place of mourning.

‘Thanks.’ He’d been about to ask Paul but Rachel’s gender might give them an advantage. Wentworth had killed women and her presence might lower the man’s defences.

‘Do you think the boss’ll be OK?’ she asked as they walked down the stairs.

‘He’s in good hands.’ He knew this was a cliché but he needed to believe it.

When they reached the hospital a nurse showed them into the room where Wentworth was lying with a police guard stationed outside. His injuries, the nurse said, weren’t as bad as they could have been because he’d had the presence of mind to jump straight into the water although he’d still suffered burns to his face and would bear the scars for life.

When Wesley opened the door he saw Wentworth propped up against the hospital pillow, swathed in bandages, faceless. But Wesley could see his eyes staring at him, unrepentant and filled with contempt.

It was to be an informal interview. A chat. The official statement with the tape running would follow later. Meanwhile there were things Wesley needed to know so he decided to come straight to the point. ‘Why did you kill Kassia Graylem?’

‘Is it any use saying I didn’t?’ Wentworth’s muffled words were casual, as if Wesley had been inquiring about some minor misdemeanour. Wesley had never been a violent man but he knew he’d need all his self-control to get through the interview.

‘We’ve been in touch with the police in France.’

Wentworth said nothing.

‘Two women were murdered on the west coast last year and two on the Riviera recently. We’ve also heard from the Italian police that there were three similar murders on the Amalfi coast a couple of years ago. All the victims were strangled and put into inflatable boats.’

‘Inflatables capsize,’ Wentworth said simply.

‘An Englishman answering your description was seen with two of the French victims before they vanished. Last month another woman went missing in Antibes where you met up with Dennis Dobbs.’

‘Really?’

Wesley felt a slight pressure on his arm. Rachel had touched him as though she sensed that he was almost at breaking point.

He asked the question again. ‘Why did you kill Kassia Graylem?’

‘Who says I did?’

‘We’ve got a picture of you with Kassia and her parents taken seven years ago in Suffolk.’

Wentworth shrugged. ‘That proves nothing.’

‘She recognised you and said she was going to prove you killed her parents. We’ve spoken to your alibi, Kimberley Smith, again, and she’s changed her story. On Saturday morning she had to start work at the hotel early so she left her flat near the market at five thirty. She told us that you asked her to say she was with you till later; spun her some yarn about being involved in a burglary and told her she was the love of your life. She wasn’t too pleased when she learned the truth. We couldn’t stop her talking after that.’

Wentworth said nothing.

‘Kassia had just spent the night on Chris Butcher’s yacht and when she was walking along the embankment she spotted you. She’d seen you before and recognised you but she hadn’t been certain. You must have had a hell of a shock when she approached you.’

‘Who says she approached me? You’ve got no evidence.’

‘Killers always leave traces,’ said Rachel. ‘A hair or a flake of skin. Some invisible sign of contact. We found a leather belt on board the boat. We’ve sent it to the lab. If it was used to kill Kassia, we’ll soon know.’

Wentworth stared at her for a few seconds and Wesley could see the hatred in his eyes. She’d defied him. If they’d been alone in some isolated spot, he’d probably have killed her. But instead he nodded calmly, as though he was tired of keeping up the pretence.

‘This isn’t an official interview and I’ve got no legal representation so nothing I say now will stand up in court. Is that right?’

Reluctantly Wesley said yes.

‘OK. I admit it. I killed Kassia. She was being a pain, going on and on about her fucking parents. I snapped.’

‘And her parents?’

‘Her dad made me angry. I’m getting sick of this,’ he said. ‘I want you to go. Nurse,’ he shouted, his voice still muffled by the bandages.

Wesley ignored him and hoped the staff hadn’t heard. ‘What about Eric Darwell?’

Wentworth gave a derisory snort. ‘The little private eye in the cheap suit. He came sniffing around. Kassia told him she was sure I’d killed her parents. Said she thought she’d seen me and she wanted him to confirm it. She’d even given him a photo of me with her and her parents. He came to the boat on Monday morning and said he’d heard on the news that a girl answering Kassia’s description had been found dead. I told him it couldn’t be her ’cause I’d seen her on the embankment the previous evening. I couldn’t have him going to the police with his story, could I?’

‘What happened?’

‘I knew I had to get rid of him so I told him I couldn’t talk then ’cause I was expecting Den back but I said I’d meet him later at the holiday park where he was staying. I went there in Jonathan’s fancy dress and pretended I wanted to look round the place. He took me to this scruffy old swimming pool. He was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase ’cause he thought of it as a business meeting. You had to laugh.’

‘You took his briefcase.’

‘Sure. He said he’d brought the evidence in it – the photo and his notes. If you’re looking for it, you’ll find it at the bottom of the river.’

‘Did Andre Gorst see you putting Kassia’s viol in the bushes? Did he blackmail you?’

‘He was a stupid greedy nobody. I did him a favour,’ he said with contempt.

‘Where did you get the gun?’ Wesley asked.

‘Marseilles. You can pick up all sorts of things in Marseilles.’

‘You haven’t asked about the officer you shot.’

Wentworth didn’t answer.

‘Why did Kassia’s father make you angry?’ Rachel asked. ‘I want to understand.’

The man with no face turned his head towards her. ‘I wanted to go sailing with them and he said no. He called me a spoiled little posh kid and told me to keep away from his daughter. Nobody speaks to me like that. I caused the gas leak and waited. The stupid bastard smoked like a chimney so I knew it was foolproof. As soon as he set foot on board, bang. I taught him a lesson, that’s all.’

‘And your father saw to it that you got away with it,’ said Wesley.

‘I always get away with it, as you put it. I’m untouchable.’

‘And the women you killed in France and Italy?’

Wentworth hesitated. ‘They weren’t important. Look, you’re not recording this so I’ll just deny everything I’ve just told you. I’ll say the gun belonged to Den and I waved it around when I panicked and I’d no idea it was loaded. My dad’ll fix everything, you’ll see.’

Wesley caught Rachel’s eye. If they didn’t have the upper hand, he would have found the man’s confidence frightening.

When they reached the door Wesley glanced back and suddenly he knew why the sight of that featureless face masked in white bandages seemed so familiar.

It was the face of Shipworld’s Shroud Maker. Bringer of darkness into a light, colourful world.

The doctors at Morbay Hospital reckoned Gerry was lucky. The bullet had only damaged his shoulder without penetrating any vital organs. The operation to remove it had been a success and when Wesley visited him he was sitting up in bed, claiming that his new bullet scar would give him some welcome credibility amongst the villains of the area. Wesley laughed dutifully, but the thought of what might have been still left him with a nebulous feeling of dread, as if he’d been robbed of some of his certainties and life would never be quite the same again.

Sam called in to sit beside his father’s hospital bed whenever work allowed and a tearful Rosie had been visiting every day. Sometimes she’d been there at the same time as Joyce and it seemed that some kind of pact had been reached. A truce of British politeness. Joyce even expressed enthusiasm for attending one of Rosie’s concerts but Rosie had responded bluntly, saying the concerts were over until the next Palkin Festival – adding that if Dan Hungerford felt inclined to re-form Palkin’s Musik for the next festival in a year’s time, she probably wouldn’t be available. Joyce had smiled and said nothing. Now Gerry had been released from hospital and was recuperating at home. Wesley hoped it wouldn’t be too long before he returned to work.

Rory Wentworth too was out of hospital, his once flawless tanned features now a mask of mottled scar tissue. He had been questioned formally, charged and remanded in custody until his trial. This was in spite of the intervention of his father who’d been reluctant to acknowledge his son’s nature over the years; who’d denied the truth until it could no longer be ignored. Wesley found himself feeling a little sorry for Carlton Wentworth. It was a terrible thing to have so much materially and yet to bear a terrible, unacknowledged burden; a time bomb that could blow your comfortable world apart at any moment. Nobody knows what goes on in other people’s lives, Wesley thought. Sometimes envy is the most pointless of the deadly sins.

There was only the paperwork to sort out, including that generated by the European police inquiries. Then there was a new spate of burglaries at holiday cottages. Standard fare for this time of year with the main tourist season just beginning. Jenny Bercival had been reunited with her mother and had now returned to London to recuperate from her ordeal. She was having professional help to come to terms with what had happened but Wesley feared that she might never fully recover.

At least the Palkin Festival with its accompanying problems was over for another year and the
Maudelayne
had sailed off into the sunset minus one of her crew. Captain Garcia had allowed a short service of remembrance to be held for Andre Gorst, although in view of his behaviour with Rosie Heffernan, if the man hadn’t been murdered, it was doubtful whether he’d have welcomed him back on board.

Wesley was sitting at his desk. He’d felt uncomfortable about usurping Gerry’s office in his absence. Even though he was acting DCI for the time being, it just hadn’t seemed right. He was checking over the budget reports with a nagging feeling of resentment and the recurring thought that if he’d wanted to be an accountant he would have gone to work for a large firm in the City and be earning a good deal more than his policeman’s salary. As the figures swam in front of his tired eyes, he was relieved to hear Rachel’s voice.