As soon as Gerry Heffernan arrived in the incident room on that damp Tuesday morning he received a call from Neston CID. Wesley
saw a satisfied smile spread across the DCI’s face as he put the receiver down. The news, whatever it was, was good.
He emerged from his office and called for attention. He was the bearer of glad tidings. The extra patrols put on in Neston
after Naomi Hart’s death had borne fruit. A man had been caught by an undercover officer. He’d followed her and jumped her
near the castle and he got the shock of his life when she said who she was.
Gerry hurried off to break the news to CS Nutter, leaving Wesley to make the call to DI Tony Wilshire, his counterpart in
Neston.
‘Hi, Tony. I believe congratulations are in order.’
‘Yeah. Our man’s being interviewed as we speak.’
‘You know what I’m going to ask, don’t you, Tony? Who is he and could he be our killer?’
‘Actually, Wesley, he’s already on your radar. He met your second murder victim on the night she died. Alan Jakes is his name
– lives in Tradmouth and just comes to Neston for his jollies; doesn’t want to piss in his own back yard, I presume. He’s
admitted to the assault on Andrea Washington but he’s claiming that he never harmed anyone and that he only did it for the
excitement.’
‘Why the mask?’
‘It’s Goofy, the cartoon dog. He says he found it on a yacht he was working on and it seemed like a handy way to conceal his
identity. He’s being very co-operative. Positively chatty. We’ll have finished questioning him by lunchtime so feel free to
come and get him.’
As Wesley put the phone down Gerry re-entered the office with a beaming smile on his face. Nutter obviously hadn’t given him
any trouble. After Wesley outlined what Tony had told him, Gerry sat down heavily and rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll ask
Guy to observe our interview with Jakes.’
‘You’ve seen the CCTV, Gerry. He was telling the truth about Isobel Grant meeting someone.’
Gerry looked up. ‘But what if he carried on watching her out of sight of the camera? He might have taken a short cut and followed
her when she parted from this other bloke. What are the odds of there being two attackers of young women operating at the
same time in a ten-mile radius?’
‘I take your point but I reckon Jakes just gets his kicks out of scaring them. Our man strangles and mutilates them.’
‘Maybe Jakes would have finished the job with the others but something stopped him.’
Wesley had to acknowledge that the DCI might have a point. ‘What about his alibis?’
‘We’ve only got the word of his mates from the pub and they could be lying for him.’
‘Mind you, he doesn’t strike me as the type to take much of an interest in Egyptology.’
Gerry pulled a face. ‘You’ve got a point there, Wes. We mustn’t forget Robert Delaware. I think we should bring him in again
… apply some pressure.’
‘He’s up at the castle keeping a low profile. Neil says he’s been spending all his time in his room working on the biography
he’s writing.’ He noticed a stain on the DCI’s tie … tomato ketchup probably. ‘When’s Joyce back?’
‘Not till the weekend.’
Wesley gave him an understanding look. Then he made a decision. ‘Ian Petrie’s not well.’
Gerry frowned. ‘Sorry to hear that. What’s wrong?’
When Wesley told him, Gerry sat there quite still for a few moments. ‘Poor sod,’ he said eventually, bowing his head.
‘I said I’d try and meet him for lunch today.’
‘Yeah, Wes. You do that.’ He stood up. ‘And we need to speak to Clive Crest about that dating website too.’ He pretended to
examine the debris on his desk. ‘I’ll send someone over this morning to have a word.’
‘I’d like to speak to him myself. There’s something about him …’
Gerry nodded his assent and looked at his watch. ‘About time I addressed the troops. What time can we expect Alan Jakes?’
‘Neston are sending him round in a car as soon as they’ve finished with him. Might be early afternoon.’
Wesley left the office. He’d ring Neil later to check up on
Delaware. But in the meantime Clive Crest was on his mind. The priapic solicitor seemed to know a large number of young women.
And he wondered if Naomi Hart was amongst them.
Clive Crest had just called his secretary to say he wouldn’t be arriving at the office till after lunch. Suzie had insisted
on going into work so he’d been left holding the baby who was, at present, fast asleep in his cot. The agency had told them
that it might be some time before they could procure a replacement for Analise. Suzie was treating her murder as a major inconvenience;
she hadn’t even shown Analise’s sister much sympathy when she arrived on their doorstep wanting to retrieve the dead girl’s
belongings. Sometimes Clive wondered why he’d ever thought that marrying Suzie was a good idea. There were times when her
self-absorption made him cringe.
Carpe diem
had always been one of Clive’s favourite sayings – he used it many times on social occasions to give the impression that
his grasp of Latin was better than it actually was – so he decided to seize that particular day and take advantage of Suzie’s
absence. There was something he needed to do while she wasn’t there – something he didn’t want her to know about.
Their two garages were built beneath the house which, like many Tradmouth houses, clung to the hillside overlooking the river.
A steep flight of steps led up to the front door and the garages – one for his BMW and one for Suzie’s SUV – were at street
level, carved out of the rock beneath the garden. Clive shut the front door and made his way down the steps.
When he reached the garage door and twisted the handle, it yielded to his touch because the lock was broken; it was
one of those jobs he kept putting off. The door flew up and he edged his way gingerly around his car, making for the large
space at the rear. This was Clive’s own space, oil-scented and dirty; the only space where Suzie would never think to look.
It was where he kept his treasures.
He shifted an empty oil drum to one side and crouched down. Behind the drum was a battered plywood cupboard. He tugged open
the ill-fitting door and reached inside, feeling for the envelope he knew was there. His fingers made contact and he pulled
it out, holding his breath.
Analise’s death and the subsequent police intrusion had marred things for the moment, but Clive harboured hopes that once
the fuss had died down he and Vicky might be able to take up where they’d left off. He missed their snatched time together.
He missed her young body and the pleasure she gave him. And he missed her laughter – even though most of it was cruel.
He knew that Vicky Page wasn’t a nice person. She teased him about his thinning hair and mocked his scrawny physique but that
hardly seemed to matter when every encounter with her made his whole body tingle with excitement. He pulled the photographs
out of the envelope, moistening his lips as he stared at the glossy image of the young naked girl. She had told him to take
the pictures, an act that had caused her great amusement. Vicky always told, never asked. Then there were the pictures of
them both, bare limbs entwined, taken with a timer. She said she’d kept a set of those … in case they ever came in useful.
These words had made Clive uncomfortable and the realisation that she possessed the means to blackmail him one day had crawled
across his mind. But he’d pushed that thought from his head. Vicky might be short on sexual morals and scathing
about her friends but he was sure – at least he hoped – that she’d never do anything illegal like that. Besides, one day
she’d go off to university and abandon him without a second thought. To her, their relationship was an amusement, a rebellion.
But to him it was a window into a different, thrilling world. A glimpse of his own personal paradise.
He returned the photographs carefully to their hiding place, wondering what he would do if Vicky ever threatened to show those
pictures to Suzie; if she ever saw him as an easy way of financing her university years. It wasn’t something he liked to think
about but he knew it was a vague possibility – an unexploded bomb, sitting buried deep beneath the comfortable edifice of
his life.
When he looked at his watch he realised that he’d already been there ten minutes with his forbidden pleasure and that there
was a risk that Alexander might wake up and start crying. He closed the cupboard door and he had just shifted the oil drum
back, careful to line it up exactly with the circular mark it had left on the concrete floor, when something caught his eye.
He’d been so engrossed in those intimate memories of Vicky that he hadn’t noticed the black bin bag standing on the grey metal
shelving, pushed between half-empty paint pots and defunct domestic appliances.
He reached out to grab it and as his hand made contact, it fell to the floor and its contents spilled out onto the cold concrete.
He recognised the jacket and pink sweater at once because he’d seen Analise wearing them so many times. Squatting down beside
them he reached for the length of garden cane that stood in the corner and began to turn the things over. Beneath the outer
clothes lay Analise’s underwear – faded pink bra and matching lacy pants – her socks and scarf. Even her canvas shoulder
bag was there.
Clive threw down the cane and stood up, staring at the things as though he feared they’d explode in his face at any moment.
Eventually he took a deep calming breath and braced himself before donning a pair of unused gardening gloves and stuffing
everything back in the bin bag, reopening his secret cupboard and throwing the lot inside.
Then he heard the unexpected sound of the adjacent garage door opening. A loud grating sound. Unmistakable. Suzie was back.
Clive’s heart was racing as he hurried out of his garage, an artificial smile fixed to his lips. They emerged from their respective
garages at the same time, almost as though it had been choreographed, and as soon as Suzie saw him she gave a scowl of welcome.
‘I was just getting something from the car,’ he gushed. ‘Alex is fast asleep upstairs; he’s quite safe.’
Suzie said nothing as she made for the steps leading up to the house. He let her go ahead. It was always his lot to follow
behind.
When they reached the front door he heard a car roll to a halt down on the road. He looked round and when he saw that it was
a police car, he felt a little sick.
‘Police,’ Suzie muttered, her hand poised to unlock the door. ‘What do they want now?’ She looked at Clive accusingly.
He clenched his fists and tried to look casual. If she noticed his fear, so would the police.
They watched the tall plain-clothes policeman climb the steps and stride towards them up the sloping garden path. A dark-haired
young woman walked behind him. They looked at ease with each other, almost as if they were lovers, Clive thought.
They introduced themselves as DC Paul Johnson and DC
Trish Walton and they needed a word with Mr Crest in private. And while they were there, would he mind if they made another
search of the premises?
Suzie opened the front door wide. ‘Help yourselves,’ Clive heard her say. ‘We’ve got nothing to hide.’
Clive swallowed hard and attempted to smile.
Wesley looked up and saw Gerry standing there.
‘Any word on Delaware at Varley Castle?’
‘I spoke to Neil ten minutes ago. He and Andrew Beredace have decided to sleep there. I think Neil’s a bit worried about Caroline
Varley.’
‘So he should be if Delaware’s our man.’
‘We don’t know for certain that he left that hospital room. Someone could have planted those Anubis figures in his flat. In
fact I don’t see how Delaware could have put them there.’
‘He’s clever, Wes. And don’t forget, he knows all about those old murders. Every last nasty little detail.’
‘All our evidence is circumstantial.’
‘If it wasn’t he’d be down in the cells.’
‘Anything new from Forensic about the clothes he was wearing when he was taken to hospital?’
‘There’s nothing to connect him with the crime scene.’
‘At least it looks as though Guy Kitchener was wrong about the double event. That’s one blessing.’
‘Mmm. Unless we haven’t found the body yet.’
They were interrupted by the sudden droning of Gerry’s phone. He picked up the receiver and, after a short conversation, he
looked at Wesley, a triumphant expression on his face.
‘That was Paul. He asked Clive Crest about his contact with Isobel Grant over the Internet. Crest denied that he’d ever met
her.’
‘Surprise, surprise.’
‘And they’ve had a look round Crest’s garage.’
‘I thought that had already been done?’
‘Apparently not. The garage is well away from the house so it got left out of the initial search. I’ll have to have words
with someone,’ he added ominously. Then he paused and Wesley knew that he was about to deliver a dramatic punch line. ‘Trish
found a bin bag hidden in a cupboard. It was full of the clothes Analise was wearing on the night she died and her bag and
mobile phone were there too.’
‘I take it they’re bringing Crest in?’
Gerry nodded. ‘He’s on his way.’ He paused. ‘You know what the trouble is, Wes? We’ve got too many suspects here.’
‘And now we can add Clive Crest to our list,’ Wesley said quietly. ‘I never really had him down as a serious contender but
he knew Analise, he’d been in touch with Isobel via the dating website and he’s got no firm alibi for the attack on Clare
Mayers. As for the murder of Naomi Hart, his wife was out and I wouldn’t put it past him to have left the baby alone. I take
it Paul and Trish didn’t find that missing mask on the premises?’
Gerry shook his head. ‘We can’t have everything.’
‘We need to ask Suzie Crest if her husband has any connection with Varley Castle … or if he’s been showing any interest
in hundred-year-old Dartmoor ripper murders.’
‘I’ll leave that to you, Wes. That woman scares the life out of me.’
The phone on Gerry’s desk rang and he picked it up. After a brief conversation he looked up at Wesley. ‘That was Neston. They’re
sending Jakes over in a patrol car. He should be here in ten minutes.’