‘Which university was she at?’
‘Liverpool.’
Wesley saw Gerry’s eyes light up. ‘That’s my home town. And my son was at university there studying to be a vet.’
Wesley shot his boss a look. Mrs Grant would hardly wish to be reminded that somebody else’s son was still alive and well
while her own daughter was lying in the mortuary.
But Mrs Grant smiled politely. ‘Perhaps they knew each other.’
‘I’ll mention her name to our Sam. If he knew her he’ll be upset. I take it she had a lot of friends in this area.’
Mrs Grant hesitated. ‘Not really. But she was trying to build up a social life and she was friendly with Gwen: she teaches
French at the same school.’
‘I know. Somebody’s gone over to speak to her. Did she keep in touch with her university friends?’
‘I think so. She used the Internet a lot.’
‘We’ll need to get somebody to examine her computer,’ Wesley said gently. ‘Is that all right?’
Mrs Grant nodded and hugged the photo close to her. ‘She was such a lovely girl.’
‘I take it you got on well?’
Mrs Grant suddenly looked uneasy. ‘We had our rows, of course. She kept saying she was sick of living at home and she wanted
a place of her own. But that’s normal, isn’t it?’ She sounded defensive, as though Wesley’s question had hit a raw nerve.
‘And if you’ve got a recent photo we can have …’
Mrs Grant stared at the picture in her arms then she handed it to Wesley. ‘You can use this one. It’s the latest one I’ve
got. It was taken at Christmas. You’ll let me have it back, won’t you?’
‘Of course we will.’ Wesley took it from her carefully as if it was something delicate and very precious – which to Mrs Grant
it was.
When Wesley’s phone rang he excused himself and stepped out into the hall. It was Trish. She’d spoken to Gwen and she was
reporting back. From the privacy of the Ladies’ toilets at the Angel, Isobel had told Gwen that Adrian was very good-looking,
quite a charmer. He was a divorced businessman with a big house up near the golf club – although the exact nature of his business
hadn’t been specified. No surname had been mentioned but Isobel was keen to boast to her friend that her date owned a yacht,
the
Lazy Fox
, and a red Ferrari. Isobel must have thought she’d struck lucky. According to Gwen she’d certainly sounded excited …
and maybe a little smug.
Wesley waited until they’d left the house before he filled Gerry in on the news.
‘A red Ferrari.’ Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘Flash or what?’
Wesley looked at him and smiled. ‘There can’t be too many red Ferraris around here.’
Maybe finding Adrian would be easier than they’d feared.
By the time Wesley arrived home the children were fast asleep and Pam was slumped on the sofa with a glass of red wine in
her hand watching the ten o’clock news headlines.
When he entered the room he bent and kissed her on the forehead.
‘Neil’s been after you,’ she said, her eyes still on the TV screen. ‘He must have called five times. Says it’s urgent.’
‘My phone’s been switched off.’
‘He sounded worried.’
Wesley sat down beside her and shook his head. ‘It’ll have to wait till tomorrow.’ He looked into her eyes and saw anxiety
there. She’d sensed something was wrong. ‘We found another body.’
‘There was something on the local news but they didn’t give details.’
‘It’s the same as the other one … Analise Sonquist.’
Pam’s hand went to her mouth. He put out his arms and drew her towards him. ‘I’m shattered.’
She gave him a brief hug and broke away. Then she got another glass from the kitchen and poured him a large helping of wine.
‘I take it you’ve eaten?’
‘You can’t work evenings with Gerry without having a takeaway. As far as he’s concerned a cop with an empty stomach is a cop
with an empty charge sheet.’
Pam gave a half-hearted smile and raised her glass just as the kitten charged in and scaled the curtains. She clung to the
top mewing pitifully as Wesley stood up and disentangled her needle claws carefully from the fabric.
‘Stupid animal, she’s been doing that on and off ever since I got in. The kids think it’s hilarious.’
The phone started to ring just as Wesley had lifted the tiny creature down from the curtain and placed her gently on the floor.
Pam picked up the receiver and passed it to him, mouthing the word ‘Neil’.
Wesley sighed and took the instrument from her. ‘Hi, Neil.’
‘I’ve found something,’ Neil said. ‘A book full of sketches of John Varley’s victims.’
‘You mean pictures of them when they were alive?’
‘No. These are like crime scene photos only sketches. The bodies are wrapped up in bloodstained sheets. Four victims, several
pictures of each with the names printed neatly underneath.’
Wesley said nothing for a few moments as he absorbed the information.
‘Where did you find them?’
Neil hesitated. ‘I … er … I thought I’d have a quick look through Robert Delaware’s room while he was out.’
‘And he’d hidden the sketches?’
‘They were in a drawer with some other stuff he’d been using in his research. Shall I try and bring them down tomorrow? I
think you should see them.’
Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Leave everything where you found it and I’ll come up to the castle tomorrow. If you see Delaware
don’t mention it, will you?’
‘I’m not daft.’
‘Is he back yet?’
‘He arrived just before I left. I don’t think he suspected I’d been sniffing around.’
‘Good.’ Wesley looked at his watch. It was after ten now. He told Neil he’d be in touch and put in a call to Gerry to tell
him the news.
‘Morning briefing at seven thirty?’ said Gerry cheerfully. ‘And we can send someone over to Varley Castle to pick up Delaware
and the evidence. He’ll be back here just in time for elevenses.’
First thing the next morning Wesley sat at his desk. Guy Kitchener sat opposite him sipping coffee.
‘You’ve seen the photos of the latest victim, I take it?’
Guy put his coffee down on the desk. ‘Yes. It’s identical to the first. And as the details of the mutilations haven’t been
released, we can rule out a copycat killing. There’s a seriously disturbed weirdo out there.’
Wesley gave him a weak smile. ‘Weirdo? Is that a technical term you psychologists use?’
‘It’s the term a layman would use. I like to put it in words
the average policeman would understand. Present company excepted, of course. I imagine the DCI likes to call a spade a spade.’
‘Don’t underestimate Gerry.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
As if on cue, Gerry Heffernan emerged from his office, calling his faithful to attention. It was time for the morning briefing.
And he had a satisfied look on his face.
‘Right,’ he said when the troops were gathered, facing the notice board with its array of gruesome photographs. ‘There’s been
a couple of developments overnight. First of all there’s the man Robert Delaware claims he was with on the night of Analise
Sonquist’s murder. He’s a teacher called Raymond Seed and he’s not answering his door. According to his school, he’s been
off work sick since Tuesday but his neighbours think he’s gone away, no idea where to. Also he lives alone so Delaware’s story
about him having a wife is a load of rubbish.
‘Our second development is that our friend Delaware has been found in possession of some rather unpleasant sketches of John
Varley’s original victims in 1903 – identical MO to the deaths of Analise Sonquist and Isobel Grant. According to Dr Bowman,
Isobel was probably killed after Delaware left here on Thursday. He’s being picked up so he should be with us very soon.’
Wesley glanced at Guy who was perched on the corner of his desk with an expression of expectant interest fixed to his face.
‘We’ve got Dr Kitchener here,’ Gerry continued. ‘He’s going to bring us up to date on his conclusions.’ He didn’t sound too
confident. ‘Guy. Would you like to say a few words?’
Guy Kitchener stood up and cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been
analysing the locations where the bodies have been left. Dr Bowman says the victims were killed where they were found. If
we assume that Clare Mayers was an intended victim this means that all the attacks have taken place within a three-mile radius.’
‘So the murderer lives in the area?’ asked an eager young DC.
‘Not necessarily. It’s possible that he lives somewhere not far away, like Neston or Morbay, and travels into the area. This
is his hunting ground. He strikes then returns home.’
Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. Delaware had a flat in Tradmouth yet to be searched, and he was staying out at Varley Castle. But
then Guy’s suggestions weren’t necessarily to be taken as holy writ.
Guy continued. ‘After Analise’s death I thought there was a chance that she was singled out for some reason but now I don’t
think there’s any personal motive for the attacks. The victims made themselves available to him. They were in the wrong place
at the wrong time.’
‘So it’s no use looking too deeply into the victims’ private lives?’ Gerry sounded a little disappointed.
Guy shook his head. ‘I’d concentrate more on the perpetrator if I were you. I’ve been thinking about the mutilations. Normally
I’d say that a killer who could do that had a deep and pathological hatred of women. But having heard about the Egyptian connection
from Inspector Peterson here, it puts rather a different slant on things. The mutilations emulate the Egyptian procedures
that were meant to give the body immortality so perhaps it’s his way of doing them a favour. Showing them love even. I’m not
sure.’
‘Are these murders linked to the attack on the woman in Neston?’ Gerry asked.
‘I’m keeping an open mind on that one,’ Guy replied.
It was Wesley’s turn to ask the question that had been on his mind since Neil’s phone call the previous night. ‘Our killings
are identical to the ones committed by John Varley in 1903. Why has the murderer chosen to copy these old murders?’
‘Simple. He heard about them and they began to prey on his mind until interest turned into obsession. It didn’t come out of
the blue. He’ll have been planning this for a while. When you catch him you’ll probably find a lot of stuff about ancient
Egypt and the Varley murders in his home. Maybe even a sort of shrine to John Varley.’
A uniformed officer bustled into the room and made straight for Gerry Heffernan. He passed the DCI a piece of paper. Gerry
read it and looked up. ‘Right, everyone. Carry on.’
As everyone returned to their tasks, Gerry caught hold of Wesley’s arm and drew him towards his office. Guy followed a little
behind as though uncertain of his welcome.
‘Robert Delaware’s here,’ Gerry said to Wesley. ‘He’s down in the interview room. And that sketchbook’s being brought over.’
Guy caught up with them. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help over-hearing. Do you mind if I observe the interview?’
‘You can watch through our fancy two-way mirror,’ said Gerry. ‘Delaware fits your profile of the killer – in his thirties,
single, a rather unsuccessful author who nobody’s heard of.
Wesley could tell that Guy was trying hard not to look smug.
‘And he gave a false alibi for Analise’s murder,’ Gerry continued. ‘At first he told us he was having an affair with a married
man who has now conveniently vanished. I think
he made up that tale on the spur of the moment to throw us off the scent. He probably reckoned that if he could convince
us he wasn’t interested in women sexually, then he’d hardly go to the bother of killing them.’
Wesley knew that Gerry might have a point. ‘Delaware was certainly in Tradmouth on the day of Isobel’s murder – he came here
to make a statement and he didn’t get back to the castle till late. And Raymond Seed, his alibi for Analise’s, has gone walkabout.’
There was a knock on the office door and the three men looked round. It was Nick Tarnaby. He hovered on the threshold like
a child reluctant to join a party.
‘What is it, Nick?’ Wesley asked. He’d always considered Tarnaby surly and unco-operative, a difficult man to get along with,
until he’d acted with considerable heroism during the arrest of a murderer the previous November. Since then he’d tried to
make a real effort with the man – but it still wasn’t easy.
‘The landlord of the Angel recognised Isobel Grant’s picture. She was in there the day before yesterday. And she was with
a man.’ He consulted a sheet of paper. ‘Five feet ten, short dark hair. Mid-thirties; smart leather jacket.’
‘Could fit Delaware’s description,’ said Gerry with a frown. ‘And it could fit the man Andrea Washington met in Neston before
she was assaulted. Had the landlord ever seen this bloke before?’
Nick hesitated. ‘He said he thought he’d been in before a couple of times but he’d been dressed casually, scruffy even – old
jeans and sweatshirt, as if he’d been working on a boat or something. He said the man had a bar meal with Isobel and they
left together around nine. They seemed to be getting on OK but they were hardly all over each other.’
‘We’ll need an e-fit.’
Nick nodded. ‘Right you are, sir.’
Wesley caught Gerry’s eye as Nick scurried out. What they could do with now was a bit of luck.
I Remember Cleopatra.
Suzie Crest had thought it a superb title for a play and she had been relieved when the decision had finally been made to
enter the Castle Players’ autumn production for the annual Tradmouth Drama Festival in April. With a few more rehearsals their
success could be repeated … and even improved on. And as it had been written by a local author – a woman who lived just
outside Neston – she reckoned they stood a good chance of walking off with the festival prize. Local always went down well.
On the day of the first rehearsal Suzie was the last to arrive at the church hall and some of her fellow thespians shot wary,
even pitying looks in her direction, which was hardly surprising as her small supporting role in Analise Sonquist’s death
had made the local papers. She hoped nobody would mention it as she hadn’t yet rehearsed the appropriate responses.