The Shining Skull
Kate Ellis
was born and brought up in Liverpool and studied drama in Manchester. She has worked in teaching, marketing and accountancy
and first enjoyed literary success as a winner of the North West Playwrights competition. Keenly interested in medieval history
and archaeology, Kate lives in North Cheshire with her husband, Roger, and their two sons.
The Shining Skull
is her eleventh Wesley Peterson crime novel.
Kate Ellis has been twice nominated for the CWA Short Story Dagger, and her novel
The Plague Maiden
, was nominated for the
Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year
in 2005.
For more information log on to
www.kateellis.co.uk
Wesley Peterson series
:
The Merchant’s House
The Armada Boy
An Unhallowed Grave
The Funeral Boat
The Bone Garden
A Painted Doom
The Skeleton Room
The Plague Maiden
A Cursed Inheritance
The Marriage Hearse
The Blood Pit
A Perfect Death
Joe Plantagenet series
:
Seeking the Dead
Playing with Bones
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-7481-2656-9
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 Kate Ellis
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
.
In memory of my mother Mona Ellis (1924–2005) who
loved crime fiction and who was a constant source of
encouragement to me.
15th September 1976
‘We have your son.’
Anna Fallbrook found it hard to focus on the words as her eyes filled with tears.
As her heart pounded in her chest like a warning drum, she closed her eyes and gulped air into her lungs. But the intake of
oxygen had no effect. She felt as though she could pass out at any moment and sink to the ground like some Victorian invalid.
A warm tear ran down her cheek, tickling the flesh. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and tried hard to concentrate
on the letters swimming before her eyes behind a film of tears. ‘We have your son. If you obey our instructions to the letter,
he won’t be harmed. But if you tell the police we won’t hesitate to cut his throat. Await instructions.’
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Things like that happened to somebody else . . . to stars . . . to celebrities . . . to multimillionaires.
Not to families like the Fallbrooks. Marcus – her little Marcus – would be with Jenny. He would be on his way home now from
his prep school with his nanny, Jenny. Someone was playing a joke on her. A nasty joke in very bad taste.
Anna didn’t know how long she’d sat there in the cool shade of the late summer garden staring at the words neatly printed
in black ballpoint on the sheet of pale yellow paper. She felt as though her body didn’t quite belong to her. As if she was
in some cruel and frustrating dream.
She could see the river through the trees at the end of the garden; the sun reflected on the rippling water like sparks of
silver fire. That sort of thing didn’t happen in a place like this. Derenham was a refuge from urban life; somewhere you could
leave your doors unlocked without fear of being robbed. Perhaps that’s why they had been off their guard. Perhaps their complacency
had made it easy for a snake to slither unseen into their Eden.
But she took another deep, gulping breath, trying to convince herself that it was all a sick joke. When Marcus and Jenny returned
she’d laugh about it. And then she should really mention it to the police.
She walked round the house to the drive and waited by the front door, watching for Jenny’s Mini to appear at the gate. For
the next ten minutes she paced to and fro, swinging between hope and
despair, between telling herself it was all a wicked hoax and battling a crushing, trembling fear that the note might be
genuine.
Then when Jenny’s Mini sped up the drive and the nanny emerged from the car with tears streaming down her pale, pretty face
saying that Marcus hadn’t been at school since lunchtime and nobody knew where he was, Anna realised it was for real.
Marcus was gone.
Thirty years later
It was so familiar, the view of the low, stone house through the overhanging branches; the open French windows giving a glimpse
of a comfortable, slightly old-fashioned interior; the manicured lawn stretching down to the wide fringe of trees at the water’s
edge; and the small paned windows twinkling in the weak September sun. The smell was familiar too; the damp scent of undergrowth
after the rain, the faint salty tang of the river.
Marcus staggered up the bank, ignoring the nettles and thorns that snatched at his legs and stung the flesh exposed by the
tears in his tattered jeans. He had reached the top of the bank now and he stood perfectly still, shielded by the leafy oak
trees.
This was it. This was home. He hadn’t seen it for three decades but it had hardly changed, as though it had been waiting for
him, frozen in time.
Slowly and reluctantly, he retraced his steps and made for the wooden jetty where he’d tied up the small motor boat he’d hired
in Tradmouth. He’d have to think. He couldn’t just barge in and announce his return as though nothing had happened.
He knew he’d have to face it soon – but he dreaded seeing the disbelief, the bewilderment, on their faces as he tried to explain.
Returning from the dead is never easy.
TO BE HELD AT THE GEORGE INN, DUKESBRIDGE
ON THE 24TH DAY OF APRIL 1814A MEETING AT WHICH WILL APPEAR
THE AMAZING DEVON MARVEL
WHO, BEING BUT 10 YEARS OLD, WILL ASTOUND
ALL PRESENT WITH HIS PRODIGIOUS
CALCULATIONSAdmission 1d
Leah Wakefield was in full view now.
Watching from the shelter of the trees, the stalker shifted from foot to foot. The time had to be right. The conditions had
to be perfect for the operation.
The little bitch was strutting down the green velvet lawn behind the house, making for the azure rectangle of the swimming
pool wearing a bikini that left little to the imagination. There was a fixed scowl on her lightly tanned, baby pretty face
and she kept throwing contemptuous glances at the older woman trotting beside her, trying to keep up.
The stalker recognised the woman, the small, plump blonde with too much make-up on her hatchet face and a skirt too brief
for her years. Leah’s pushy mother, Suzy Wakefield – a face that had graced every tabloid and celebrity magazine in recent
months. And for once it looked as though the newshounds at the lower end of the market had struck a rare and rich vein of
accuracy. The body language and the never-ending barrage of carping from the older
woman targeted at the half naked girl with the California tan and the gym-honed body said it all.
The rift between mother and daughter was deep. As deep as the cut the stalker would make in the victim’s throat if the family
didn’t come up with the goods.
The girl was in the pool now, floating on her back, her bronzed limbs spread out like a sacrificial victim. She was vulnerable;
oblivious to the outside world. And completely unaware of what lay ahead.
‘There’s been another taxi attack. That’s the second in two weeks.’
Detective Constable Steve Carstairs looked up from the open copy of the
Daily Galaxy
he was reading underneath his desk and saw Detective Sergeant Rachel Tracey looking down at him.’
‘Sorry, Sarge. What was that?’
Rachel pushed her blond hair back off her face, trying to conceal her impatience. ‘Another woman’s been abducted by a bogus
taxi driver . . . same as before.’
Steve looked at her blankly.
‘Forget it. Everyone else seems to be out so I thought you could come with me to interview the victim. But if you’re busy
. . . ’ She said the words with heavy irony as she stared down at the newspaper. ‘Anything interesting?’
Steve felt his cheeks reddening. ‘Er . . . I was just reading about that singer Leah Wakefield. She’s a right little slapper
by the sound of it.’
Rachel unfroze for a second and allowed herself a grudging grin. She too had followed the musical career and personal life
of the teenage singing sensation, Leah Wakefield, with some interest – along with a substantial proportion of the population.
But she was hardly ready to admit this weakness to Steve.
‘If I were you, Steve, I wouldn’t believe everything you read in that paper of yours. They usually make it up as they go along.’
By the time Steve had opened his mouth to protest, Rachel was heading towards DI Peterson’s office with the determination
of a guided missile. Steve watched her retreating back and saw her hesitate for a second by the office door to smooth her
hair. Any excuse, he thought, to talk to Peterson. Sometimes she made it so obvious.
As his office door opened, Wesley Peterson looked up. ‘Anything new?’
‘Another taxi abduction,’ Rachel began as she made herself comfortable in the visitor’s chair. ‘Early morning this time, would
you believe. Woman on her way to Neston Station to catch the London train. She rang for a cab and one turned up. Then after
a while she noticed the driver wasn’t taking the right route for Neston. She told him but he just carried on and parked the
taxi in an isolated country lane somewhere – she wasn’t sure where. Anyway, it was exactly the same MO as before. He took
out a pair of scissors and cut off her hair.’
‘The boss thinks he fancies himself as a hairdresser. Or he used to be a hairdresser and he got the sack.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t think even a defrocked hair-dresser would make the sort of mess this bastard does. I’ve seen
the other victims. He just hacks their hair off. No marks for artistic merit.’ She looked up. ‘The papers are starting to
call him the Barber. Do you reckon it’s sexual . . . a power thing?’
Wesley shrugged. ‘I think it’s a distinct possibility. But we won’t know for sure until we catch him. Where did he drop off
his latest victim?’
‘Just like the others. He dropped her off at the station. He leaves them wherever they’ve asked to go.’
‘Description?’
‘Nondescript. Middle aged. Baseball cap pulled down over his face. Droopy moustache. Average build. Average height. Average
everything.’
‘Last time it was a clean-shaven man with long mousy hair.’
‘Perhaps he’s disguising himself . . . or it’s a different man?’
Wesley looked up. ‘Surely there can’t be more than one of them. What about the taxi firm she booked?’
‘Again the bona fide cab arrived to find the client already gone. Our friend’s listening in to the taxi frequency for likely
victims and getting in there first. All the victims swear that the car bore the name of the correct taxi company and a licence
plate. It all looked kosher.’
‘He’s organised. I’m just worried that he’s going to move on from chopping his victim’s hair off to doing some real harm.’
Rachel looked at Wesley. ‘I wondered if you’d like to come with me to see this latest victim.’ She felt herself blushing.
‘She might
have seen something the others didn’t. I mean, as you said, he’s got to be stopped before someone gets hurt.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Stokeworthy. Next to the village school.’ She hesitated, the mention of schools bringing something uncomfortable to mind.
‘How’s your wife by the way? Has term started yet?’ She couldn’t help asking the question, like picking at a scab.
‘She went back last Tuesday.’ Wesley smiled. ‘And she’s looking forward to half term already.’ Pam Peterson taught in a primary
school and Rachel had worked out long ago that Wesley’s domestic life tended to follow a pattern – agreeable in the school
holidays and strained in term time.
Wesley stood up and looked at his watch. ‘The DCI’s in a meeting with the Chief Super which means he’ll be like a bear with
piles when he gets back. I think we should make ourselves scarce, don’t you?’
Rachel smiled. Wesley’s assessment of DCI Gerry Heffernan’s mood was probably all too accurate. She followed Wesley Peterson
out of the office. It looked as if it was her lucky day.
The stalker watched Leah Wakefield disappear into the house. A big house. Neo-Georgian. Vulgar as its residents and built
on the outskirts of Neston in the days before the South Hams became an area of outstanding natural beauty and the planning
authorities became too fussy.
He felt he knew the house. The interior was familiar from a four page spread in a well known celebrity magazine. And then
it had featured on the TV series
Star Homes
. Cameras had followed the scantily clad Leah around the house . . . to the gold and cream lounge with the massive plasma
TV occupying one wall like a cinema screen; to the sumptuous bedroom with its walk-in wardrobe and en suite with corner spa
bath with solid gold taps; to the kitchen with its acres of polished wood and granite. The stalker had played the video through
again and again until he knew the layout of the house and the contents of each opulent room off by heart.
He’d seized the opportunity to have a good look round when the house was empty during Leah’s last nationwide tour and he’d
paid particular attention to the security system, noting each PIR detector and every lock on the doors and windows. Emboldened,
he had
called at the house pretending to sell alarm systems and struck lucky with Leah’s cleaner. She was a garrulous woman who,
in her pride at being connected with a celebrity, had talked far too much. When the stalker had feigned the excited interest
of a genuine fan, Mrs Cleaner had played to the gallery, impressing him with her intimate knowledge of the Shining One, bathing
in her reflected glory. As far as she was concerned it was only natural for someone to be awed and fascinated by someone who
had appeared regularly on the TV and whose every action was reported in newspapers and magazines.
Leah and her mother had been staying in Devon for a week now and the stalker had watched her from his well-concealed hiding
place in the woodland – in the wild area between her grounds and the adjoining farmland. There had been a close shave when
a brace of paparazzi came stamping through the undergrowth in hope of capturing a shot of the star off her guard and doing
something that might be worth a headline or two. But they had given up after a few hours. If they’d stuck it out, they would
have got an eyeful.
The weather forecast for tomorrow was good. She would be in the pool again. Half naked and vulnerable.
If he was to take her, it would have to be soon. But the moment had to be right.
It was a strange symbol, one Dr Neil Watson of the County Archaeological Unit had never come across before. Seven boldly carved
rays radiated from a seven-pointed star with a flower, possibly a rose, at its centre.
‘It’s on several graves . . . all dating from the early nineteenth century.’ The Reverend John Ventnor, Rector of St Merion’s
church, Stoke Beeching, gave a nervous smile. ‘I’ve no idea what it means. Do you . . . ?’
Neil shook his head. ‘Contrary to rumour, archaeologists don’t know everything. I’ve never seen anything like it before in
my life.’
‘There’s been quite a bit of opposition, you know.’ The Rector saw that Neil looked puzzled. ‘To the church extension . .
. the new parish room. A lot of people don’t like the idea of disturbing the dead.’
Neil assumed what he considered to be a suitably solemn expression. ‘No. I suppose some people are squeamish about . . . ’
‘They’ll be disinterred respectfully, of course, and reburied in another part of the churchyard but . . . ’
‘Yeah.’ Neil gave an impatient smile, trying to think of something intelligent to say. He just wanted to get on with the job.
The authorities had insisted that the delicate work of disinterring the old graves and digging the foundations for the new
parish room at the north-west end of the church should be supervised by an experienced archaeological team, due to the thirteenth-century
church’s historical significance. And now it looked as though part of his job would be to soothe the nerves of a jumpy clergyman.
The Reverend John Ventnor leaned towards him confidentially. ‘To be honest, this has caused so much ill feeling in the parish
that I almost wish Miss Worth hadn’t specified that the money she left should be spent on building an extension to the church.
Half the parish think it’s the best thing since sermons were cut from three hours to the requisite fifteen minutes but the
other half seem to imagine that we’ve hired Beelzebub himself as the architect. You just can’t win, can you?’
Neil smiled, suddenly finding himself sympathetic to the man’s predicament. ‘Don’t worry,’he said. ‘It’ll all be done as discreetly
and quickly as possible. We’re erecting screens today so nobody’ll be able to see what’s going on. I presume all the relevant
families have been informed? It’s not going to come as a nasty surprise to anyone that Great Uncle Albert’s being shifted
to another part of the churchyard?’
John Ventnor nodded earnestly. ‘That’s all been dealt with. Fifteen burials will be disturbed and only one family couldn’t
be traced . . . a burial dating back to 1791. Of course there’s the Bentham family vault – the tomb you were looking at before
with the odd symbol – but that’s not a problem.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘Miss Worth was their only surviving relative.’
‘And she suggested that her nearest and dearest be shifted to make way for the parish room.’
‘Miss Worth was a very practical woman,’ the Rector said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Sentimentality was hardly her forte.
She lived till she was ninety, ran a smallholding single handed and rode to hounds until she was eighty-two. Salt of the earth.’
‘A formidable lady.’
‘You didn’t argue with Miss Worth,’ said the Rector with feeling. Neil suspected he’d had one or two altercations with the
formidable lady in his time.
Neil looked around. The contractors were arriving to erect the screening, their thoughtlessly parked lorry blocking the main
street through the village. Some of the archaeological team had already turned up in an old camper van and they’d started
to unload equipment from the back. John Ventnor turned and gazed upon this scene of industry but showed no sign of moving
and leaving Neil to his work.
Neil had never considered making conversation to be one of his strengths but, as he wasn’t in a position to do much else just
yet, he thought he’d give it a try. ‘Do you know the new Vicar of Belsham?’
‘Mark? Yes, of course.’
‘I was at university with his wife’s brother.’
The Rector’s eyes lit up. ‘Really? I’ve met Maritia a few times . . . lovely lady. She told me that her brother’s a policeman
in Tradmouth.’
‘That’s right. Wes studied archaeology with me at Exeter before he joined the force. He’s a detective inspector now.’
‘Did you go to the wedding?’
Neil nodded. Then he turned away. The mention of Maritia Peterson’s wedding conjured uncomfortable memories.
His eyes focused once more on the strange carving that adorned the Bentham family tomb. The past, to Neil, was a safe and
comfortable country . . . unlike the present. ‘Odd symbol that. Wonder what it means.’
‘I’ll have a look through the church records if you like . . . see if there’s any mention of it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Neil as the builders were making their way noisily up the church path carrying various unrecognisable pieces
of equipment.