The Shadow Collector (10 page)

‘Why did you bring it home?’ Wesley asked.

‘I collect things. I thought it might be old.’

‘What made you take it to the police?’

Alex glanced at his mother. ‘When I had a proper look at it I realised it wasn’t rust on the blade. I thought it might be
blood and I’d heard about the murder next door so I …’

‘You did the right thing.’ Wesley smiled to reassure him, although what he saw on the boy’s face wasn’t apprehension, it was
disappointment. Perhaps he’d been hoping for a valuable addition to his collection of treasures and murder had got in the
way.

‘What else have you found with your metal detector? I studied archaeology at university so I’m interested in that sort of
thing.’

Alex looked at him curiously, as though he didn’t quite believe that this policeman could be telling the truth. ‘I’ve found
coins … and a funny bottle with nails inside.’

‘Can I see them?’

Alex hesitated for a moment before standing up. ‘They’re in my room. You can come up if you like.’

Gwen Gulliver looked as though she was about to object but Wesley gave her a hopeful smile. ‘Is that OK, Mrs Gulliver?’

‘Inspector Peterson loves anything old. He’d turn our
police station into a museum if he had his way,’ Gerry said with an avuncular twinkle in his eye.

Gwen gave her consent. In view of the detectives’ joint charm offensive it would have seemed churlish to object.

Wesley followed Alex upstairs and, once in his room, the boy opened a large built-in cupboard to the side of a Victorian cast-iron
fireplace. He took out a pair of large cardboard boxes and placed them on the desk beneath the window, pushing his laptop
to one side to make room.

He drew the items out one by one and placed them on the desk. Wesley made a show of examining them. A spur, probably from
the Civil War period; a variety of coins, mostly Victorian but a couple from the eighteenth century and the earliest from
the time of the first Queen Elizabeth; an assortment of parts from ancient farming equipment and a rather pretty gold ring,
probably the treasure of the collection. Then he pulled something else from the box – a bottle made of cloudy green glass.
He shook it and it rattled.

‘It’s got nails inside,’ Alex said. ‘I couldn’t get them out because there’s a stopper.’

Wesley examined it. ‘It’s a witch bottle,’ he said. ‘People used to hide them in buildings as protection against witches.’

‘It was buried near a hedge in a field on the other side of the lane,’ he said as though he suspected Wesley didn’t know what
he was talking about.

‘They were sometimes placed on boundaries to protect farmers’ animals and crops from the evil eye. It’s an interesting find.
Any ambitions to be an archaeologist?’

He could sense Alex relaxing. Perhaps it was his mother’s absence. Or perhaps it was the fact that somebody in authority was
treating him as an adult.

‘If you did archaeology at Uni, why are you a policeman?’

‘Long story.’ Wesley smiled. ‘My grandfather was a Chief Superintendent of police in Trinidad and they do say that inside
every archaeologist there’s a detective trying to get out. Can you show me exactly where you found the knife?’

‘Sure.’ The boy put his collection of treasures away carefully, picking up the witch bottle with exaggerated care.

‘It must be exciting to have all this going on next door. First the TV people and now the police.’

‘Mum and Shane freaked out when Jackie Piper’s fans started coming into our garden but it was cool. This place is usually
like the morgue so … I was sorry when he got voted off. Some of the girls at school are crazy about him and a few of them
came down here.’

‘Was it you who told them they could get through to the farm from your garden?’

Alex grinned. ‘Might have been.’

‘Do you watch
Celebrity Farm
?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Zac James is still in it.’

‘He was before my time,’ he said solemnly. ‘And I can’t stand that wanker of a comedian. He gives me the creeps’

‘I get the impression you don’t like Shane much either.’

‘He’s a dickhead. A pain in the arse.’

‘Why’s that?’

Alex was busy returning the boxes to the cupboard and it was a few moments before he answered. ‘He’s a fraud. A loser.’ He
turned and looked directly at Wesley. ‘I saw her, you know. That woman in the red coat. She was hanging around. Watching.’

‘Watching where?’

Alex hesitated, almost as though he was afraid that he’d already said too much. ‘In the lane near the farm.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

‘I was out when the police came so I haven’t had a chance.’ He paused, as though he was making a decision. ‘Shane saw her
too. He was giving me a lift home from school a couple of days ago and she was hanging round. He was having a go at me but
as soon as he saw her he shut up. Didn’t say anything till we got in.’

‘Did you ask him if he knew her?’

‘You don’t ask Shane questions. And if you do, he won’t answer them. But he might if
you
ask him. You can’t play games with the cops,’ he added sagely. And the smug expression on his face made Wesley wonder whether
this particular story had been made up or exaggerated to cause trouble for his stepfather.

Alex led him downstairs and they went outside, leaving the front door on the latch. The light was fading now but Wesley had
a torch in his pocket. They walked together out onto the lane past Jessop’s Farm to the turning that would take them to Devil’s
Tree Cottage. There he saw a metal farm gate filling a gap in the hedgerow. Alex was about to climb it but Wesley stopped
him. ‘Better not touch it. There might be prints. Just point out where you found the knife.’

Alex obliged, looking pleased with himself. Wesley flashed his torch at the spot before making a call to Forensic to get someone
over to examine the scene, although he wasn’t holding out much hope. It had rained a lot since Boo Flecker’s murder and the
gate had probably been well used by farm workers, smudging any prints the killer may have left.

They returned to the Rectory in amicable silence and,
once inside, Wesley made for the kitchen, Alex trailing beside him like his new best friend.

Gerry was still sitting at the kitchen table draining a brightly coloured mug, a satisfied look on his face. Gwen was hovering
nervously by the large Belfast sink. She asked Wesley if he would like a drink but he declined.

‘Mrs Gulliver, is your husband home? I’d like a word with him.’

‘He’s had to go to London again. He’s got a meeting with some TV people who are thinking of dramatising one of his books and
he won’t be back till late tomorrow.’ The words were casual but Wesley sensed a tension behind them.

‘Perhaps you could ask him to give me a call.’ Wesley handed over his card and Gwen took it, a doubtful look on her face,
as though she knew her husband would be reluctant to co-operate.

Wesley smiled at Alex. ‘Thanks, Alex, you’ve been a great help. And if you ever want any advice about archaeology, your mum’s
got my number.’

When Alex gave him a coy nod, Gerry stood up. It was time to go.

Gwen saw them off the premises like a good hostess. Or maybe, Wesley thought, she was making sure that they actually went.

‘Doing a bit of bonding?’ Gerry said as they fastened their seat belts.

‘Something like that. Alex reckoned his stepfather recognised Boo Flecker when they drove past her in the lane. Only I don’t
know whether he’s telling the truth. I picked up a lot of resentment there.’

‘It’s worth following up though. The station called while
you were upstairs with Son of Dracula. Zac James has arrived in Tradmouth and he’s demanding his solicitor … the expensive
of the species all the way from London. I told them to let James know that if his brief doesn’t arrive in the next hour or
so we’ll put him up in our luxury accommodation overnight … nice single cell with en suite facilities. How much do you bet
that when we get there we’ll find he’s opted for the duty solicitor like everyone else?’ Gerry added with a wicked grin.

He turned in the passenger seat, picked up the bag containing the knife from the back seat and sat examining it through the
plastic.

‘Vicious looking thing,’ he said absentmindedly. ‘Underneath all that soil and blood the blade seems shiny … like chrome.
It looks a bit …’ He searched for the word. ‘Ceremonial.’

‘Maybe it is.’

‘I think there’s some sort of label on the blade underneath the dried blood. Forensic should be able to tell us if anything’s
written on it.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Didn’t Lilith Benley and her mother murder those girls with a ceremonial dagger – an athame?’

He’d been about to start the car but instead he took his iPhone from his pocket and brought up images of athames used in Wiccan
rites. The murder weapon certainly resembled the pictures on the tiny screen. He handed it to Gerry.

‘Let’s go and show it to her, Wes,’ he said. ‘See what she has to say for herself.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Instead of heading straight back to Tradmouth, Wesley drove past Jessop’s Farm and then turned down the narrow
lane leading to Devil’s Tree Cottage. He sat in silence, the thought of another meeting with Lilith Benley having driven all
words from his mind.

Her crime had been unspeakable but when he’d met her she’d looked quite ordinary and he’d had to keep reminding himself of
what she’d done. Perhaps the banality of evil was the most disturbing thing of all.

He parked in front of the cottage. It was dusk now and Wesley could see Lilith in the light streaming from the open doorway.
She was sorting through a pile of wood that hadn’t been there when they’d last visited. She stopped and watched them get out
of the car, like a nervous animal contemplating flight. He could see she had a clawed hammer in her right hand, poised as
if to defend herself.

‘I’m building a chicken run,’ she said, almost defensively, as though she was trying to explain away her possession of a potentially
offensive weapon. ‘It’s about time I got this place back on its feet.’

‘Very commendable.’ As soon as the words left Wesley’s lips he knew they sounded patronising. ‘Can we go inside?’

She put the hammer down and led the way into the house. As soon as they were in the parlour Gerry held out the bag containing
the knife. ‘We think this is the weapon that killed that woman at Jessop’s Farm. Recognise it?’

Lilith took the bag and squinted at the weapon inside. ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life.’

Wesley saw her eyes flicker away and he knew she was lying.

‘But it is a ceremonial knife … an athame. Like the one you used to have.’

She held the weapon up in the air and stared at it for a few seconds. ‘Where was it found?’

‘In a field on the other side of your lane. We’re going to get it tested for fingerprints,’ said Gerry. ‘Sure there’s nothing
you want to tell us?’

She sighed and handed back the bag. ‘How many more times do I have to spell it out? I never saw the woman who was killed and
I had nothing to do with her death.’ Her voice was calm, almost resigned. As if she was just going through the motions of
protesting her innocence but didn’t expect to be believed.

‘So you don’t want to add anything to your original statement?’ said Gerry.

‘No. Now if you don’t mind I’d like to get on with my work before it’s too dark to see what I’m doing.’

Wesley knew she was holding something back. But he also knew she wasn’t going to talk. Not then … maybe not ever, unless they
managed to find some evidence against her.

They needed some luck.

As they neared Tradmouth they found themselves stuck behind a tourist coach; late season visitors in search of nonexistent
Devon sunshine heading back to their hotel for the evening after a day’s sightseeing. As Wesley turned towards the police
station the coach headed off in the opposite direction to the waterfront, probably making for the Marina Hotel to enjoy a
three-course dinner and a comfortable bedroom with a spectacular view over the river. An autumn break in beautiful South Devon.

As soon as they reached the CID office they were greeted by Trish Walton who told them that Zac James had decided to make
do with the duty solicitor until his expensive brief arrived. He’d said the sooner he could get out of there, the better.

Gerry passed the dagger over to Paul Johnson to be sent off to Forensic and Wesley watched Trish’s face as he left the office.
Until fairly recently Trish and Paul had been going out together. Then the murder of Paul’s cousin had changed everything.
The shock of the loss had made Paul serious, morose even, and Trish had found solace with somebody else. For a while there
had been an awkward atmosphere in the office until Gerry had lost patience and bawled at them, telling them not to bring their
personal problems into work. The boss’s outburst had seemed to have worked, although sometimes Wesley still sensed a well-concealed
tension between them.

Wesley was asking Rachel whether anything new had come in, when Gerry interrupted. Zac James was waiting for them in Interview
Room one.

The man they found sitting on a metal chair fixed to the floor in case of violent outburst, didn’t look much like a celebrity.
Leaning on the table, crushing an empty plastic cup with restless fingers, Zac James had the bland, almost childlike good
looks of a teenage heart throb. Until you looked closer and saw that the flesh beneath his bloodshot eyes was sagging and
his skin was blotchy and pale as though he rarely saw the sun. Zac James was past his prime and trying his best to hide it.

As they sat down opposite he raised his head. He looked twitchy. Probably in need of some of the white powder they’d found
in his room at Jessop’s Farm. The duty solicitor, in contrast, was a small thin man in a crumpled suit who seemed bored by
the proceedings.

‘I hear you were on your way to London when the patrol car pulled you over,’ said Gerry after they’d made the introductions
and switched on the tape recorder.