The Shadow Collector (23 page)

‘Lilith told the police it had been stolen.’

‘Then somebody took it to destroy it. It’s a violation.’ She shuddered.

‘Is it possible this isn’t hers? Maybe her mother had one and …’

‘Oh no, Inspector. Witches only have one and it’s considered so important that it’s burned on their death. She would have
burned her mother’s at the first opportunity.’

Wesley took the book from her gently and replaced it in the bag. She looked glad to be relieved of the burden.

‘Why don’t you tell me more about Lilith,’ he said. ‘What brought her to West Fretham?’

‘She gave up a good job in London to buy that small-holding. She was a strong-minded woman and she was devoted to her mother.
When Dorothy was diagnosed with dementia Lilith refused to put her in an institution, which I think is to her credit.’

‘Was there a man in Lilith’s life?’

‘I believe there had been someone when she was down in London. I sensed a great deal of sadness there. I think it was something
she found too painful to discuss.’

‘Did she tell you she was being persecuted by local teenagers?’

‘She said some stupid girls had been calling her and her mother names. It upset her, of course, but she thought they’d eventually
give up if she didn’t react. Lilith was a good person and I’ll never believe she was capable of what she was accused of. As
I said before, harm none, that’s what she believed in. Harm none.’

Wesley looked her in the eye. ‘You’re sure you haven’t seen her recently?’

‘If I had I would have told you.’

‘If you remember anything else, will you let me know?’ He handed her his card which she examined carefully before placing
it in her skirt pocket.

‘If you know anything that might be relevant you’re not helping Lilith by keeping quiet. If you’ve any idea where she might
have gone, you have to tell us … for Lilith’s sake. She could be in danger.’

She stared at him for a few moments and he had the impression she was about to say something, but instead she slipped into
pleasantries about next Spring’s Arts Festival. Even if there was something more to learn, she wasn’t going to reveal it that
day. It could be that she just needed time.

He took a token sip of the terrible herbal tea and stood up. He’d just been presented with a very different picture of Lilith
Benley. Saint or sinner? He wished he knew the truth.

Unfinished business made Zac James uncomfortable. Not that the sort of people he’d mixed with since his entry into the world
of stardom would have suspected this hidden part of his character, the desire to dot the i’s and cross the t’s was at odds
with the image he’d been careful to cultivate. He once wondered whether he was suffering from obsessive compulsive disorder.
Maybe he’d mention it to the doctors next time he took a trip to rehab.

He’d heard that the journalist woman who’d been murdered had spoken to his old teacher, Mr Roley. He remembered old Larry
Roley fondly. And Larry had sounded so keen to meet when he’d called him, saying he’d
love to catch up and hear how he was getting on. He’d known John, as he called him, worked in the music industry but he seemed
unaware of his fame. The conversation had been refreshing, untainted by the usual fawning which set a distance between him
and the rest of the human race.

Zac was starting to feel nervous about meeting his old teacher again – anxious about what he’d reveal about Boo Flecker’s
enquiries. And yet he needed Larry’s advice … and his reassurance that what he thought he’d seen was merely a delusion, a
terrible vision conjured by those inner demons he’d lived with for so long. There were times when Zac thought he was going
mad and he wondered whether the chemicals he’d ingested over the years were responsible. Or was it the memory of what had
happened all that time ago – in his other life?

Roley had suggested that they meet at the pub where he’d met Boo Flecker and Zac had agreed. He drove from his hotel in Morbay
to West Fretham in the blue Porsche, top down even though the sky was full of threatening clouds, enjoying the freedom of
the country roads by driving too fast. When he came to a halt in the car park in front of the Ploughman’s Rest he saw there
was a CCTV camera trained on the cars so he knew it would be safe to leave his precious Porsche unattended. Things like that
bothered him these days.

He sat for a while, his fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. A glance at his watch told him he was early so he
climbed out of the car, locked it and strolled over to the pub door.

It was Saturday and the place was busy so Zac put on the dark glasses he always wore when he didn’t want to be recognised.
When he entered the cosily lit pub it took on
the appearance of a gloomy cavern so he took them off again and pulled his baseball cap down to shade his face, unaware that
his attempt to look inconspicuous was failing miserably.

Roley hadn’t arrived and Zac resisted the temptation to order something strong at the bar. He’d been done for drink driving
twice before and if it happened again, he knew they’d come down hard on an unrepentant repeat offender. Instead he made his
way outside again and waited, leaning against his car, arms folded.

Then he heard someone calling his name. ‘Zac. Over here.’

The voice seemed to be coming from the direction of the little wooden signpost at the corner of the car park, next to the
public footpath.

Curiosity got the better of him and he began to walk towards the sign. He felt the pulse in his neck throbbing. He needed
something to make him think more clearly. But what little white powder he had left was back in the safe in his hotel room.

He was at the entrance to the footpath now and he heard the voice again. ‘Please … I just want to talk to you, that’s all.’

His heart was pounding but he tried to look casual. His feeble attempt at disguise had been in vain; he’d been recognised
but it was best to get it over with. He could see a dark figure standing some way away down the footpath in the shadow of
the tall hedgerow growing between the path and the field beyond. It began to walk away down the path, glancing back every
now and then to make sure he was following.

And when he’d walked a few yards, just far enough to be
hidden by the foliage, the figure turned and bore down on him like a fury. Then, too shocked to move, he saw a flash of polished
metal.

While Wesley was at Neston police station he’d asked how the investigation into Neil’s accident was progressing. The answer
had been disappointing. The enquiries were ongoing. Police speak for they’d drawn a blank.

He’d also had another word with DS Gaulter. Simon Frith’s prosecution was going ahead but Wesley suspected Gaulter wasn’t
altogether happy about it. When he’d asked him if something was bothering him, he’d shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

As soon as he’d finished in Neston, Wesley returned to the incident room to re-examine some of the witness statements and
think things over. But thinking proved difficult in the hubbub of conversation as the team made phone calls and compared notes.
Then there was Gerry. He meant well but he had a habit of emerging from behind his desk every so often to chivvy the troops
along and to enquire whether there were any new developments.

Wesley was sitting at his desk staring at a blank sheet of paper, trying to concentrate, when Gerry spoke again, his voice
booming across the echoing hall.

‘Anyone turned up anything on Joanne Trelisip’s father yet?’

Wesley looked up and saw that one of the young DCs, a handsome, dark-haired lad who looked as if he might be of Indian descent,
had his hand up like a child keen to answer a question in class.

‘I’ve been searching but I can’t find any trace of him.’

‘Well keep on looking.’

There was another lead Wesley wanted to follow. When Gabby and Joanne vanished, it was immediately assumed that the abductor
later identified as Satan Death had been responsible. However, a week after their disappearance the police received the anonymous
phone call telling them to look for them at Devil’s Tree Cottage and the whole enquiry changed course.

The routine visit to Devil’s Tree Cottage to check the place out triggered a full-scale murder enquiry when evidence of the
girls’ brutal murder was found there. But, in spite of the police’s best efforts, the anonymous caller who had put them onto
it had never been traced. The call had been made from a public phone box at Morbay Station but there had been no useful evidence
among the hundreds of smudged fingerprints and, eighteen years back, there was no helpful working CCTV to record the caller’s
identity.

The caller was a man – he knew that much but little else. The call had been recorded as a matter of routine and at last the
recording Wesley had requested had arrived on his desk: a cassette tape, a relic from the pre-digital age. He’d asked Nick
Tarnaby to find a machine to play it on and now a dusty combined radio and tape player that had probably spent years at the
back of some store cupboard sat on his desk ready.

Wesley put the tape in and pressed the appropriate button, hoping the tape wouldn’t snag. But he was in luck. First he heard
the operator’s voice, calm and reassuring. ‘Emergency. Which service do you require?’ Then a few moments of silent hesitation
before a muffled voice spoke. ‘Those two girls in West Fretham. They went into Devil’s Tree Cottage and never came out. I’d
look there if I was you.’

Before the operator could ask for details, the call ended abruptly and Wesley sat listening to the dialling tone. He played
the tape again. Then again. The voice sounded local and it was muffled, as though the caller was speaking through some sort
of cloth. And it was probably disguised as well, unnaturally deep as though a woman was trying to sound like a man. The theory
at the time was that it was someone from the village who hadn’t wanted to be identified. But Wesley suspected this was because
the caller was connected with the case in some way. He rewound the tape and listened to it again. But he was none the wiser.

The Ploughman’s Rest had a good reputation for food and Mr and Mrs Fulerton who’d come to Devon for a late break considered
it was well deserved. Pleasingly full from their lunch of home-made lasagne with a healthy side salad, Mrs Fulerton – a retired
teacher who’d recently developed a taste for long hikes across muddy fields – nodded to her husband who was gazing longingly
at the hand pumps on the bar, craving another pint. It was time to go. They had eight miles to cover before returning to their
rented cottage in Bereton.

They left the pub, Nordic walking poles at the ready. Mrs Fulerton strode ahead, making for the wooden fingerpost at the far
side of the car park which bore the words ‘public footpath’. Mr Fulerton followed, holding back a little, yearning for the
comfort of the pub. But, yielding to the inevitable, he quickened his pace to catch up with his wife.

As he walked his attention was caught by a blue Porsche parked untidily in the car park. It was new and shiny and he slowed
down to admire it. But when he heard a scream he stopped, almost tripping over his poles.

He saw his wife emerging from the entrance to the footpath, her hands reaching out towards him, red and glistening. Her eyes
were wild with terror and he saw her open and shut her mouth as though she was trying to speak but had been struck dumb by
some terrible curse.

At first Mr Fulerton thought the red fluid dripping from her outstretched hands was paint. And it took him a few seconds to
realise it was fresh blood.

Journal of Thomas Whitcombe, Captain in the King’s army, September 21st 1643

I saw Alison walking with a servant and, forgetting for the moment my mission of discovery, I followed her, my clothes soaked
with rain and my boots caked in the thick mud from the town streets
.

She walked up the steep hill leading to St Leonard’s Church. I stayed some way behind and I saw her enter a handsome house
set upon the hillside on the edge of the town. From there it was but a short walk beyond the barricades to Hilton Farm. I
had not realised my duties as a soldier of the King had brought me so close to her
.

The house is set behind a tall gate which gives onto a fine formal garden and I loitered outside as long as I dared. When
I saw a servant approaching the gate I feared I had been seen so I hurried away. I would return to Prince Maurice and report
what I had learned that day. But I would make no mention of Alison
.

I hear more talk of sickness in the town and it is said some are possessed by demons. Today I heard of an old woman who has
been seized
for cursing Master Cromwell and casting spells against her neighbour, causing her to fall downstairs when she was with child.
The child was born early and died. It is said the old woman will hang
.

Written by Alison Hadness, September 21st 1643

I ventured out again into the town and this time I know it was indeed Thomas I saw for I espied him again near to Mercy Hall.
How my heart leapt at the sight of that dear face for I thought I should never see him again. How I long to speak with him
but I cannot request it in prayer for my desire is a grave sin. William’s health worsens and Dorcas gives him my physic as
instructed. I will not permit Elizabeth to see him and her ill will towards me increases by the day
.

Dorcas had no wish to destroy the doll for fear that I should suffer by its burning. I too am afraid and so I keep the thing
hidden well in my linen press. Since I, with Dorcas’s aid, removed the nails from the wax, my pains are much relieved. It
is said that such magic is strong. Dorcas would denounce Elizabeth for sorcery but I fear to bring attention upon our household
at this time
.

Elizabeth keeps to her chamber and will say nought to me. Before William’s sickness he did say there is a gentleman in Neston
who has want of a young wife so my dilemma may yet be solved when this siege of our town is ended and Parliament prevails.
There is such a lack of grain now at the town mill while Prince Maurice keeps the best produce for himself and hopes to starve
us into surrender. I like not foul rye bread so I will not eat it
.

There was a look of utter astonishment on the dead man’s face. Wesley had an urge to close the wide, horrified eyes but it
wasn’t his place to touch the dead.

‘Where are the people who found him?’ Gerry asked.

‘Inside the pub. They looked as though they needed a drink. They’re a retired couple here on a walking holiday. I don’t think
they’ll be able to tell us much. Wrong place, wrong time.’

‘A holiday they won’t forget, eh,’ said Gerry grimly. ‘Get someone to take a statement and tell them they can go home.’

‘Already done. They’re staying in a rented cottage in Bereton.’ He nodded towards the body. ‘All hell’s going to break loose
once the press get hold of this.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that, Wes? The longer we can keep it under wraps, the better.’

‘We should see if Laurence Roley’s up to talking. He turned up just after Mrs Fulerton found the body. Says Zac had arranged
to meet him here. Wouldn’t have thought he was the type to look up an old teacher.’

‘Last I heard the landlord took him into the pub for a stiff drink. Any chance he was responsible?’

Wesley didn’t reply. Roley’s shock had seemed absolutely genuine. But, in his experience, the guilty have been known to produce
Oscar-winning performances when the police are around.

‘I hear you’ve been at it again.’

They looked round and saw Jane Partridge standing there, arms folded like the seaside landladies of distant legend.

‘Are you trying to make work for me or what?’

‘Not our fault, love. We didn’t kill ’em,’ said Gerry with a hint of defiance.

‘Isn’t it about time you found who did? And less of the “love” if you don’t mind. Any ID on this one?’

‘It’s Zac James … the singer,’ said Wesley as Gerry
stepped away from the body, subdued, whether by the rebuke for his lack of gender awareness or the implied criticism of his
skill as a detective, Wesley couldn’t tell. But he guessed it was probably the latter.

‘Well he won’t be singing any more,’ said Jane bluntly, squatting down by the corpse.

Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. The woman was developing a sense of humour … even if it was of the gallows variety. They watched
as she made her initial examination.

‘There’s a knife wound to his abdomen. Seems identical to that woman’s at Jessop’s Farm. I’d say the same weapon was used.
I thought you’d found it.’

‘We did. But the search team’s just found another one thrown into that hedge behind you.’ Gerry held up an evidence bag. ‘An
athame again. Identical. The killer’s using a new one for each murder. Obviously not a believer in recycling.’

Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘Which means he has a supply of the things,’ she said.

Wesley nodded. They’d worked that one out for themselves. And Lilith Benley had ordered three from Evan Mumford, the only
person locally with an endless supply of ceremonial knives, imported all the way from China in cardboard boxes. Lilith’s three
knives hadn’t been found at the cottage so presumably she’d taken them with her when she disappeared. Boo Flecker had been
killed with one and now a second had ended Zac James’s life. Which meant she still had one left.

‘I can pronounce life extinct and I’ll do the postmortem tomorrow,’ Jane announced as she stood up. She stared down at the
body as if she was racking her brains to think where she’d seen him before. ‘Famous, is he?’

‘He used to be in a boy band called Ladbeat back in the 1990s. A few years ago he was the subject of every teenage girl’s
dreams.’

Jane sighed. ‘The press don’t like dead celebrities so you’ll be under some pressure to find whoever did this. On the other
hand, they do say an untimely death can revive a flagging career.’

Wesley looked away. In his opinion Jane Partridge lacked Colin Bowman’s innate compassion. Or maybe it was just a defensive
shell. An act to conceal her true feelings. Sometimes such things are necessary if horror isn’t going to get to you. He knew
that as much as anyone.

Laurence Roley had been taken home by his partner, Ian, seemingly too shocked to face a police interview for the time being.
Gerry was impatient to know why Roley had arranged to meet Zac James at the pub where he’d met Boo Flecker. It seemed a strange
coincidence and he wanted to know if Roley should be moved up their suspect list. Wesley thought it unlikely but he wouldn’t
have wanted to stake his life savings on it.

In the meantime there was somebody else they wanted to see. It was Saturday afternoon and when they arrived at the Mumfords’
house, Wesley saw that the builders’ pick-up truck was parked in front of the house beside a Mercedes and Harriet’s small
four-by-four. Mumford’s glossy yellow Mini, his plaything, was parked some way away in front of a dilapidated wooden garage.
The sight of it reminded Wesley of Neil.

He still had no idea who could have sabotaged his friend’s brakes. One of the officers he’d spoken to at Neston had reckoned
it was probably nothing personal. Somehow
this made it worse. If Neil, a harmless archaeologist, could be the target of a random attempted murder, anybody might be
at risk.

Harriet Mumford answered the door. She wore a short denim skirt and a pink T-shirt with a low scooped neck and at first she
looked almost pleased to see them. But she swiftly assumed a worried frown, as if she’d suddenly remembered they were police
officers.

‘Is it about Neil? Is he okay?’

‘He’s on the mend. They’re letting him out of hospital on Monday,’ said Wesley.

‘We still don’t know who cut his brake pipes though,’ Gerry chipped in. ‘I take it you’ve no ideas?’

When Harriet shook her head her fine veil of blonde hair flopped over her face. She pushed it back behind her ears.

Wesley had the latest murder weapon in a plastic evidence bag. It was stained with blood, now dried to a russet crust. He
held it out for Harriet to see.

‘There’s been another murder. This appears to be the weapon used.’

‘It’s the one that you showed me before,’ she said, accusingly, as if she thought they were wasting her time.

‘It’s identical but it’s not the same one. That’s safely in the exhibits store at the police station.’

‘That woman who killed those kids bought three by mail order. I’ve heard she’s gone missing.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Have you found the athames she ordered?’

‘Not yet,’ said Wesley.

‘There you are then. I blame myself for not recognising the name. It should have started alarm bells ringing.’

‘Hardly your fault. But we will need to speak to everyone who has a supply of the things. Just routine. Do you know a man
called Zac James? He used to be in a boy band called Ladbeat.’

‘I think I’ve heard the name but …’

‘His real name’s John Grimes. You’ve never met him?’

‘Not that I can remember.’

‘Where were you this lunchtime, love?’ said Gerry sharply.

Wesley noticed a flicker of alarm in Harriet’s eyes, there for a moment then swiftly concealed. ‘I was here. The builders
can vouch for me. Some of them have been coming and going but I think Lee’s been here all morning.’

‘You haven’t been over to your studio in West Fretham?’

‘Not today, no.’

‘What about your husband?’ Wesley asked.

Harriet suddenly didn’t look so sure of herself. ‘He’s been here most of the morning but …’

Wesley held his breath, hoping she was about to make a revelation.

‘He popped down into Tradmouth around midday. He met a business associate for lunch.’

‘Really?’ said Gerry. ‘Does he usually do business on a Saturday?’

‘This customer’s only in Devon for a few days so it was the only time he could make it. He’s back now so why don’t you ask
him?’

‘We will.’

Harriet hesitated, head bowed. ‘Come through to the drawing room. I’ll get him.’

As she led the way past the door to the derelict wing Wesley could hear the sound of hammering. According to
Dave the mysterious cellar had now been fully excavated and he would have liked to see it. But murder was more urgent.

Harriet left them in the drawing room which was low-beamed and cosy with a huge inglenook fireplace at one end. A large Turkish
rug covered the flagstone floor and the dark oak furniture was polished to a shine. Everything was in keeping with the house
and shouted prosperity and good taste.

He walked over to the fireplace, a tall oak edifice, intricately carved with figures and foliage. In the centre, in the place
usually reserved for a family motto or coat of arms, were three words. Mors Vincit Omnia. Death conquers all. The words made
Wesley shudder. This had never been a happy home, he felt. Death had ruled here and someone had carved it there for posterity.

When he spotted a number of photographs in silver frames standing on a Jacobean court cupboard in the corner, he strolled
over and began to examine them, suddenly curious to know more about the couple’s life. Gerry followed him and looked over
his shoulder.

There was a picture of a dashing Evan in morning dress with a red carnation in his buttonhole. It had clearly been taken at
a wedding but there was no bride, no smiling Harriet in a white gown and veil. Wesley thought this was unusual: it was a rare
bride who didn’t want to recall how she looked on her big day. To the right of the solitary bridegroom, in pride of place
and in a slightly larger and fancier frame, there was one of Evan Mumford shaking hands with the Mayor.

‘There’s a familiar face,’ said Gerry. He was pointing to a posed photograph obviously taken at a social gathering.
Evan was with a man Wesley recognised as Shane Gulliver, the author. The two men were holding champagne glasses and had their
arms around each other’s shoulders in a manly, matey manner. The best of friends.

When Harriet returned, saying her husband would join them in a minute or so, Wesley pointed to the photograph.

‘You know Shane Gulliver?’

‘Yes. That was taken at a party we gave a few weeks ago.’

‘Gulliver’s done well for himself.’

‘Deservedly. Have you read any of his books?’

‘No but my wife has. She’s reading one at the moment.’

‘Shane’s a remarkable man. To overcome a background like that and establish yourself as a bestselling author takes some guts.’
Harriet Mumford was obviously a member of the Shane Gulliver fan club and Wesley felt it would be churlish not to nod in agreement.

‘Well he’s made it to the big time now,’ said Gerry. ‘You know he lives next door to the farm where that journalist’s body
was found?’

‘That’s right. It was a terrible shock for him and Gwen.’

‘So you know his wife?’ Wesley asked.

‘Yes, I know her quite well.’

‘I’ve met her son.’

‘Alex?’ She gave an indulgent smile. ‘Gwen says he’s going through the teenage years at the moment. Dresses in black and goes
round looking as if the end of the world’s come. Makes me glad I never had kids.’

‘There aren’t any pictures of you here.’

She looked at him as though he’d said something distasteful. ‘I can’t stand having my photograph taken. It’s not that unusual.
I’ve got several friends who feel the same … Gwen included. I don’t know why it is but … Some cultures
believe that if someone photographs you they capture your soul, don’t they?’

‘I was talking to Selina Chester who runs Mysterioso in Neston. She says you’re a member of her coven.’