*
Wesley placed the Goofy mask on the table between him and Alan Jakes. The comic Disney dog bore no resemblance whatsoever
to a jackal-headed god who presided over the embalming of corpses. And Jakes’s claim that he found the mask on board a boat
and hit on the idea of using it to hide his identity while he attempted to assault women seemed plausible.
However, Guy Kitchener was observing the interview and he might have different ideas.
As Jakes had been caught in the act, co-operation was his only sensible option. And when asked about Isobel Grant, he stuck
to the story he’d already told them.
The
Lazy Fox
had been searched earlier but nothing incriminating had been found. Wesley had been half hoping that Isobel Grant’s clothes
and bag would be found stuffed away in the cabin but those hopes had come to nothing.
It wasn’t until the interview was almost over and Wesley had given up hope of learning anything new that Jakes came up with
something unexpected.
‘I might be a naughty boy, Mr Peterson,’ he said. ‘But I’m not a murderer. I never really hurt anyone, did I?’
‘You scared the living daylights out of Andrea Washington … and Clare Mayers.’ Wesley was growing sick of the man’s self-righteousness.
‘Look, I wasn’t the one who tried to strangle Clare. It’s not my style. But I saw him. And on the night that nurse was killed
I was out in Neston and I saw him again.’
Wesley sat up straight, all attention. ‘Go on.’
‘I was walking near to where she was found. Nurses sometimes use it as a short cut so I thought I might try my luck and see
if one of them fancied a drink after work – chance encounter, if you know what I mean.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I’d just arrived there – I was going to hang round by the path and pretend I’d lost my puppy – animals are always a sound
bet. Anyway, I heard this sound … like a cry. Then I tripped over something and I think I swore. I made a noise anyway
and then I heard a rustling – must have been about twenty feet away – and this bloke burst out of the bushes and hurtled right
past me.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Yeah. He had this head on like the bloke I’d seen with Clare. And he was carrying a holdall – plain black, no logo before
you ask. He ran down the path towards the car park like the hounds of hell were after him and I made myself scarce – I wasn’t
going to hang around, I can tell you.’ He hesitated. ‘Then I heard they’d found that dead girl near there. Well, it must have
been the murderer, mustn’t it? I reckon I must have scared him off.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ Wesley asked.
‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’
‘Is there anything else?’
Jakes looked him in the eye. ‘He took his mask off while he was running. If I’d seen his face, you’d be interested then, wouldn’t
you?’
Wesley’s patience was wearing thin. ‘If you know something, I strongly advise you to tell me now.’
‘I’ll think about it … if I’m granted bail,’ Jakes said with an infuriating grin.
‘Dream on,’ said Wesley under his breath. There was no way they’d risk Jakes doing another vanishing act.
‘OK, I didn’t see his face. He was running away from me and it was dark.’ The grin returned. ‘But it was worth a try, wasn’t
it?’
When the prisoner had been taken out, Wesley made his way to the room next door where Guy had been observing through the two-way
mirror.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
Guy shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t bet on his story being true. He’s playing with you, Wesley. He thinks if he pretends to co-operate
with the police the judge might go easy on him. He’s a chancer and, to be honest, I wouldn’t believe him if he said water
was wet.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll be away for a couple of days. Conference in London. I’ll be back on
Thursday night. I’ll call you then to see if there have been any new developments.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage without you till then,’ said Wesley, suddenly wondering if his words were true. Guy was proving more
useful to them than he’d imagined. ‘We’re having Clive Crest brought in. Do you have to go at once or …?’
‘I’m afraid so. I’ve got a train to catch. But I’d watch Crest carefully if I were you. He’s intelligent and resourceful and
he’ll know you’re trying to catch him out.’
There had been three deaths. In 1903 there had been four and the pattern had to be adhered to. Not too strictly, of course.
There was room for a little pleasure. Maybe even room to exceed the original killer’s score.
The jackal mask sat on the table and the killer picked it up. Papier mâché. So light, so easy to move around in, and the large
eye holes meant that there was a good field of vision. Good for watching every twitch of their muscles and the terror on their
contorted faces as they died. The killer slid the drawer open and took out the obsidian knife; honed and razorsharp so that
it could cut smoothly through newly dead flesh. As it gleamed shiny black in the light of the table
lamp the killer examined it and smiled. It had been cleaned after each killing, of course, just as it would have been cleaned
and cared for when it was first used three thousand years ago.
The killer stood up. There was no point in delaying now. The next victim had been selected. It was just a matter of seizing
the opportunity when it came along.
I was quite unprepared for the pain, as women have been from the time of the Pharaohs and before. Mrs Ball chided me when
I cried out, saying that my howlings as she called them would disturb and frighten Master Edward and Miss Victoria. And so
I tried my very best to make no sound and endure my agonies in silence. For I had no wish to harm those two children who had
shown me nothing but love and obedience. My own child, I thought, would be their half-sibling and was bound to possess their
sweetness. Then I thought of John and prayed that no trace of his vile nature would taint this flesh of my flesh who was about
to make his appearance in the world.
Sir Frederick, I was told, was away from the house. I would not be able to present him with his child and rely on his finer
paternal feelings. I did not realise until afterwards that his absence was deliberate. Mrs Ball said that he would return
when the business was over. John Varley, I was told, was at home and he had instructions to deal with any awkwardness that
arose. Those words chilled my heart. Sir Frederick’s eldest son was my enemy and I could count on no sympathy from him.
I will not describe how I laboured to bring forth my son – for it was a boy, a perfect boy of such wondrous beauty that my
heart was filled with the most indescribable love. I held him close as Mrs Ball cut the cord that had bound him to me but
then I felt her wrest his tiny body from my arms.
‘I am to take him,’ she said. ‘Sir Frederick will not have the little bastard in the house. He is to go to his mother.’
‘But I am his mother,’ I sobbed.
‘You are nothing to him. You never will be.’
I tried to grasp my baby’s small body, my heart breaking as I listened to his urgent cries.
But Mrs Ball held on tight to him as she struck me in the face.
As Clive Crest sat in the interview room, Wesley could see a bead of sweat form on his forehead and trickle down his pale
face. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and sniffed.
The solicitor who sat by his side was the partner in his practice who dealt with criminal law. As the man was a friend of
the suspect, he was more vociferous in his defence than the usual duty solicitor. And he was beginning to get on Wesley’s
nerves.
‘Can you explain how the clothes Analise Sonquist wore on the night she died came to be hidden in your garage?’ He tilted
his head to one side expectantly, aware of Gerry fidgeting by his side, seething with unasked questions. But he knew that
with Crest’s solicitor watching like a cat at a mouse hole, it was up to him to curb the boss’s enthusiasm.
‘I’m sure they weren’t there on Sunday. Somebody must have planted them there. The lock on the garage door doesn’t work. I’ve
been meaning to get it fixed for some time
but it’s just one of those jobs that doesn’t get done.’ He looked at Wesley, man to man. ‘You know how it is when you’re
busy at work.’
‘But that still doesn’t explain why the killer left them in the very place where you hid those photographs.’ He glanced at
the solicitor by Crest’s side. He was a large man with heavy jowls and, at the mention of photographs, his small eyes had
suddenly become alert, as though sensing an interesting revelation was about to be made about his colleague.
Crest blustered. ‘The garage is the obvious place to hide anything. It’s accessible from the road and you can’t see the door
from the house.’
‘Perhaps the killer knows where you hid the photos of you and Vicky Page. Perhaps he knows you well. Perhaps he knows all
your most intimate secrets.’
‘Look, anybody can get into that garage.’ He straightened his back. ‘I didn’t kill Analise but the killer obviously knows
where she lived. Which means she must have been the target: it couldn’t have been a random attack. Why aren’t you out interviewing
her friends? Or that artist she was involved with … Geoff Dudgeon? Why are you wasting time with me?’
Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. Clive Crest had a point. On the night of her murder she was supposed to meet Geoffrey Dudgeon.
And they only had his word for it that he never turned up – and his wife’s of course, but she wouldn’t be the first wife to
lie for her husband, and she might even have made the necessary phone calls to provide him with an alibi. She’d given him
alibis for the other deaths as well. A constant woman.
‘Have you ever been to Varley Castle, Mr Crest?’
Crest looked puzzled. ‘No. Why?’
‘You have no reason to detain my client.’ The solicitor spoke in a confident drawl. ‘I suggest you release him at once before
I make a formal complaint to your superiors.’
‘Very well,’ said Gerry, unusually subdued. ‘But don’t leave town, will you, Mr Crest? We’ll need to talk to you again.’
Clive Crest and his solicitor stood up as one. They thought they’d won. Wesley knew their victory might be temporary. But
from the expression of disappointment on Gerry’s face, he obviously didn’t share his optimism.
‘He’s got away with it,’ Gerry said as soon as Crest and his colleague had been ushered from the room.
‘Well, if he’s telling the truth and they weren’t there on Sunday, I don’t see how Robert Delaware could have put them there.’
‘But is he telling the truth?’
Wesley had to concede that Gerry was right. There was no reason to believe that Crest hadn’t been lying.
Gerry turned to look at him. ‘All our suspects seem to be slipping through our fingers like oiled eels.’
In Wesley’s opinion Gerry probably had the situation spot on.
Caroline Varley tipped up the electric kettle and watched as the steaming water flowed out of the spout into the two colourful
mugs lined up on the old wooden worktop. Then she waited, watching clouds of mahogany-brown seep from the tea bags that floated
to the top of each mug like corpses borne up on the surface of a river.
She fished the bags out with a teaspoon, her thoughts on Robert Delaware. She had asked herself over and over again, when
she lay awake in the small hours of the morning, what
she actually knew about him. Shortly after she’d moved into the castle he’d written to her outlining his proposal for a biography
of Sir Frederick. He’d named other books he’d written and invited her to contact his publisher for a reference.
But she hadn’t done it: she’d taken him on trust; invited him into her life and given him a room in the castle, albeit in
the servants’ quarters, at his own suggestion. She realised it had been foolish but she had hated the idea of being alone
in that vast place. Any company was better than none. She longed for the day when the National Trust took over the responsibility
and filled the place full of staff and visitors and life.
She placed the mugs on a tray. Neil Watson was on his own up in Sir Frederick’s Egyptian room, helping to catalogue each item,
Andrew having gone over to Exeter some time ago to meet someone from the National Trust to make an interim report on the collection.
She presumed Robert was up in his room but she couldn’t be sure. He had avoided her since his return and he could be anywhere.
She hardly liked to think about it.
When she opened the fridge and saw that there was no milk her heart sank as it meant a drive to the village shop two miles
away. She looked at her watch: if she hurried the shop would still be open. There was no need to tell Neil where she was going
because she would only be fifteen minutes or so.
After locking the back door behind her, she dashed into the courtyard and started the car. It was drizzling again and she
flicked the windscreen wipers to intermittent before steering the vehicle down the drive, slowly, in an attempt to avoid the
potholes in the old tarmac.
The light was fading and she was about to switch on the
headlights when she saw a familiar figure moving through the trees at the edge of the drive. Robert Delaware. As he disappeared
into the wood, she brought the car to a slow halt, wondering where he was heading.
Her curiosity made her forget her misgivings. Besides, she had her mobile phone with her and Neil was just a few hundred yards
away. She climbed out of the car, shutting the door as quietly as she could, and began to follow Delaware through the trees,
breathing in the scent of damp vegetation, glad that she was wearing old and sensible shoes. She could hear twigs cracking
somewhere ahead and she knew she was getting closer. Then she saw him and she hung back; she didn’t want him to spot her.
Soon he came to the edge of the woodland and Caroline stood in the shelter of an ancient oak, watching him as he strode across
a field. There was nothing furtive about his movements – but then he had no idea he was being watched. In the gathering dusk
Caroline could make out a small stone building at the far side of the field and she realised that it was an unoccupied, semiderelict
cottage on the edge of the estate that she had visited as a child when she’d been in the habit of exploring the grounds. Since
her return she had been so preoccupied that she had almost forgotten its existence. Delaware made straight for the crumbling
building, hurried up the overgrown path and pushed the front door open.
After a few moments Caroline saw a light in the window – the flickering golden glow of an old-fashioned oil lamp. She left
the shelter of the trees and crossed the field to the cottage, the wet grass soaking the bottoms of her trousers. She tiptoed
up to the window and when she peeped inside she could see Delaware in the small shabby room. And it seemed he had company.
He was bending over a painted Egyptian sarcophagus, open to reveal a grey bandaged mummy, while all around him the room was
packed with what looked like the entire contents of an Egyptian tomb. Statues, models of boats and chariots, Canopic jars.
The lot.
She stepped out of sight with her back pressed against the damp cottage wall, considering her options. Then she took her mobile
from her bag and speed-dialled Neil’s number.
But before she could get any reply she heard the front door scrape open and the phone slipped out of her hands and landed
on the muddy ground.
Analise Sonquist’s newly discovered mobile phone had been bagged up and sent off for forensic examination. All the calls she
made and received were to be itemised. It was just possible that they might reveal her killer’s identity. But Wesley wasn’t
getting his hopes up.
Gerry was hoping for evidence, however tenuous, that Analise had been in touch with Robert Delaware. But first they needed
to build the case against him so that the courts wouldn’t allow him to wriggle from their grasp.
Wesley sat at his desk turning his pen over and over in his fingers. They were overwhelmed by evidence against a number of
suspects, some solid, most circumstantial. But it was Robert Delaware who most interested him at that moment. Delaware had
lied about alibis and Delaware knew all about the women John Varley had killed and mutilated back at the start of the twentieth
century.
His phone started to ring and he picked up the receiver, hoping for good news. They were due some luck. When the call ended
he hurried to Gerry’s office.
‘Caroline Varley’s disappeared. She called Neil’s phone
but she was cut off before she could say anything. As far as he knew she was down in the kitchen making a cup of tea. The
tea was there but no Caroline. He went outside and found her car abandoned halfway down the drive. He’s called the local police.’
‘Where’s Delaware?’
‘He’s gone as well. We’d better pull out all the stops. Road blocks?’
Gerry nodded. ‘Better safe than sorry.’
Pam left school at five. After putting her plastic crate full of files and children’s books into the car boot, she looked
at her watch. Someone at school had said the man responsible for the Neston assaults had been arrested. She’d been tempted
to ring Wesley to ask if it was true. But she hadn’t had time.
Della had met the children from school, taking them to the sanctuary in Hugford where Pam was supposed to meet them and take
them home. But as Pam was about to leave work the headmistress had cornered her and she’d been forced to listen politely as
her boss waffled on about paper-work and the latest government initiative. When she’d managed to escape she realised she was
running late but when she’d tried to call Della’s mobile there was no answer. She had the number of the sanctuary but again
there was no reply so she’d left a message on Mary’s answering machine to say she was on her way. At least Mary Kitchener’s
place was keeping Della out of mischief, she thought. Volunteering to work with rescued animals was a far more suitable occupation
for a woman of Della’s years than some of her former pastimes. Besides, Michael and Amelia were enthralled with the creatures
and helping to care for them would give them a sense of responsibility. The place was good news all round.
The short journey to Hugford involved navigating down several single-track country lanes in the half light before darkness
fell. As Pam turned onto the road where the first Anubis attack had taken place – the one the girl had survived – she put
her foot down, checking her rear-view mirror for following cars. But the road was clear behind her.
She parked up on the grass verge opposite the sanctuary. Wesley had told her that the first victim, the girl called Clare,
lived next door to Mary’s place. She could see a light inside the cottage and she wondered how the attack had affected the
girl. Was she cowering inside, afraid of every sound? Or was Clare made of stronger stuff ? Maybe she’d ask Wesley how she
was getting on.
She walked the few yards to Mary’s front door and rang the bell. After a few moments the door opened to reveal a smiling Mary
dressed in her habitual checked shirt and padded gilet.
‘I’m sorry, you’ve just missed Della and the children. She’s taken them out for a burger.’
Pam cursed silently. ‘I was supposed to meet them here. I was delayed at work so I left a message on your answering machine.’
Mary looked sympathetic. ‘Oh, I am sorry – I haven’t checked it for ages.’ She hesitated. ‘Won’t you come in? Would you like
a cup of tea?’
As Pam stepped into the hallway she noticed a strong aroma of dogs hanging in the air. This time Mary led her into a back
room she hadn’t seen before. There was a fire burning in the grate and the room resembled a cosy Victorian parlour crammed
with souvenirs and photographs, all protected by a thin veil of dust. After a day spent on her feet in front of a class, Pam
longed to sit down but every available
chair was cluttered with the detritus of Mary’s life so she moved slowly around the room, examining the pictures and photographs
on the walls, tightly packed together so that the yellowing wallpaper was barely visible.
There were several pictures of Guy at various stages of development. And there were similar pictures of a younger boy, blond
and thin with large eyes. Sometimes the boy was pictured with Guy, sometimes alone and, from the facial resemblance to Mary,
Pam guessed that he was Guy’s brother. But neither Mary nor Della had ever mentioned him and she wondered why.
There was the inevitable graduation photo of Guy in mortarboard and gown. Pam peered closely at it. Manchester University.
There was also one of Guy in doctorate robes with the words University of Liverpool beneath. She wondered if he’d told Gerry
Heffernan that he’d spent his postgraduate years in Liverpool. Gerry always leapt at every opportunity to reminisce about
his home city.
Pam pointed to the photograph of the boy. ‘You’ve never mentioned that you had another son.’
Mary’s face suddenly became solemn. ‘He died.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
There was an awkward silence. Then Mary gave a brave smile. ‘Your children have a wonderful rapport with the animals. Della
tells me that Michael loves the kitten. I think it’s so good for children to have pets. It teaches them responsibility.’