Wesley stepped out of the tiny room to join them. ‘What is it?’ He sensed that a confession of some kind was about to be made.
Ian took something from the pocket of his jeans, something small and shiny. ‘Er . . . when we found the skeleton I, er, went
inside to have a look and . . .’
‘And you found something?’ Wesley guessed.
Ian nodded. ‘It was on the floor by the chair. I just picked it up, like, and forgot about it.’
He handed Wesley a plain gold ring, made for a tiny finger. Wesley thanked him and took it over to one of the huge sash windows
that allowed the sunlight to flood into the room.
He screwed up his eyes and held it up to the light. He could just make out letters inside.
‘I didn’t know what to do with it. The missus said it wouldn’t be worth much and . . .’
Wesley turned to him. ‘Do you mind if I hold on to it for a while?’
Before Marty and Ian could say anything, Neil and Matt emerged, chatting, from the skeleton room. Wesley called them over.
‘Ian found this ring near the skeleton,’ he said, careful not to sound as though he was blaming the blushing builder for withholding
evidence. ‘I think there’s an inscription inside. It looks like IS and MAI. Any ideas?’
At first they shook their heads. But something was nagging at the back of Neil’s mind. Something he’d seen recently. He walked
over to the window and stared out.
Wesley waited, gazing out over the grounds: they were worth looking at with their leafy trees and untamed greenery. Such a
pity Dominic Kilburn was planning to turn them into a golf course like a thousand other golf courses.
Neil swung round suddenly, making the two builders jump. ‘The
Celestina
. Her captain was Isaiah Smithers and he married a Mary Anne Iddacombe. IS and MAI.’
‘But what would Mary Anne’s wedding ring be doing in that room? She’s buried in the local churchyard with the rest of the
people from the
Celestina
.’
Neil shrugged. It was a good question.
It distresses me to write that Captain Smithers’ new command, the
Celestina
, was lost with all hands on the night of the twenty-fourth of July 1772. The loss of a ship is an all too familiar tragedy
on our treacherous Devon shores but I did not know the whole truth of the matter until Joseph Daniel, a villager of Chadleigh
and thus one of the souls in my care, made full confession of his wrongdoings at the trial of Jud Kilburn.I learned at Kilburn’s trial that on the night the
Celestina
was lost, Jud Kilburn called upon the said Daniel to tell him that a wreck was expected that very night and that there would
be rich pickings for the whole village. Daniel waited without a thought for the poor souls on the ship for, like George Marbis
before him, he was so sunk in greed and wickedness.Later Daniel spotted Jud Kilburn near to the notorious inn known to all as the Wreckers with a man he recognised as a servant
from Chadleigh Hall. He saw Kilburn hurry off with the man and he hoped the gentry hadn’t discovered Kilburn’s plans, for
if they had they would have put an end to the villagers’ main source of prosperity. And without the rich pickings from the
wrecks, many might go hungry.From
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by the Reverend Octavius Mount, Vicar of Millicombe
Wesley took the plastic evidence bag containing the wedding ring out of his pocket and stared at it.
‘What’s that?’ He looked up and saw Rachel standing by his desk. He hadn’t even heard her approach. ‘Is it Sally Gilbert’s?’
‘I’ve a strong suspicion it belongs to a lady called Mary Anne Iddacombe.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Possibly the Chadleigh Hall skeleton, but that’s just a tentative theory at the moment.’
The office was alive with activity. Sally Gilbert’s photograph smiled down from the notice-board at the far end of the room,
flanked by more gruesome photographs: Sally dead, swollen and putrefying. Beside the pictures were lists of suspects and lines
of enquiry to be followed in the chief inspector’s untidy handwriting. The pictures of the Chadleigh Hall skeleton had been
taken down as soon as it was realised that it wasn’t their duty to investigate it, leaving a large vacant space on the board.
Wesley wondered how long it would be before that space was filled with the photographs and details of those who had died in
late July each year for the past five years. Or was it all just a grim coincidence: an unlucky time of the year for some?
Rachel spoke again. Wesley was so deep in thought that her voice made him jump. ‘I’ve checked out whether any of those people
had done jury service. Two had and the rest hadn’t. And of the two who had, one, John Millwright, had done it a long time
ago and the other, Marcus Gibbon, had done it the year before he died. There’s no apparent connection between them. Sorry.’
‘Not your fault. Thanks for trying.’
‘How’s your wife?’
Wesley noticed how Rachel could never bring herself to say Pam’s name. Or maybe it was his imagination. ‘She’s fine. Much
better now school’s broken up and she can put her feet up a bit.’
‘She taught the daughter of that woman who killed herself, didn’t she?’
‘Brenda Dilkes – yes.’
‘Did she have much to do with Brenda?’
‘Not really. But it was Brenda Dilkes’s daughter who gave her Sally Gilbert’s necklace. If only we knew where Brenda had got
it from.’
‘Could have been anywhere. According to that Mrs Sanders she wasn’t averse to helping herself to anything that took her fancy.
I’m surprised that Brenda gave a gold necklace away. I would have thought she’d have flogged it.’
‘Me too. I wonder if she didn’t realise its value. She might have thought it was just costume jewellery. Or perhaps when Kayleigh
nagged her for a present for her teacher she just gave it to her to keep her quiet. Either that or she knew where it had come
from and she wanted to get rid of it.’
‘That’s possible.’ Rachel smiled. ‘Have you heard how the great romance is going?’
Wesley shook his head. He had other things on his mind than Gerry Heffernan’s love life.
As if on cue, Heffernan opened his office door and bellowed. ‘Wes. Have you got a minute?’
Wesley made for the boss’s office, conscious of Rachel’s eyes watching him. He shut the door and sat down.
‘I’ve had a couple of our lads out on Monks Island. Nobody at the pub remembers anyone answering Robin Carrington’s description.
It’s my bet he’s lying. I reckon he killed Sally Gilbert.’
‘Why?’
‘How should I know? Maybe he’s a nutcase who likes pushing people off cliffs when there’s not an R in the month. Your guess
is as good as mine. But don’t forget, he comes down here alone every year at the same time so, if your serial killer theory
holds up, I’d say he has to be our prime suspect.’
‘And the necklace that was in Brenda Dilkes’s possession?’
A satisfied grin spread across Gerry Heffernan’s face. ‘While you’ve been out at Chadleigh Hall there’s been a development.
The phone number of Old Coastguard Cottage was found in the book by Brenda Dilkes’s phone with the name “Robin” written by
it. It seems that our Brenda used to frequent the Royal Oak in Tradmouth and she was in the habit of picking up men there.
I’ve had a word with Carrington and he admits he picked her up there last year. He says he went back to her place for a bit
of how’s your father. He denies that he’s seen her recently but we only have his word for that. Maybe she picked that necklace
up from somewhere she cleans. Or maybe Carrington gave it to her. Let’s face it, Wes, he’s the best suspect we’ve got at the
moment. Unless you’ve got any bright ideas.’
Wesley shook his head. He had ideas all right but they were still half formed, nebulous. And the boss was right: it looked
as if Carrington was in it up to his neck . . . whatever ‘it’ was.
Gerry Heffernan leaned forward on his desk, sending a pile of papers fluttering to the floor. He made no attempt to pick them
up. ‘Right, Wes, what have we got?’
‘Robin Carrington has to be suspect, I suppose, but I can’t think of a motive. There’s Sebastian Wilde: he had means and opportunity
to kill Sally and I suppose the motive could have had something to do with the Nestec robbery – or perhaps he and Sally were
having an affair. There’s Trevor Gilbert, of course: Sally’s wronged husband. He has to be a prime suspect. Then there’s Mike
Battersley – he was having an affair with Sally but there’s no proof that he was anywhere near Monks Island on the day in
question.’
‘And there’s no proof he wasn’t. Same goes for Trevor. What about this serial killer theory, Wes? I must say it still seems
a bit far fetched to me.’
‘I’m waiting to speak to the wife of one of the possible victims but . . .’ Wesley hesitated. ‘I really think there could
be something in it. I’ve talked to a few people now and all the deaths . . . well, there’s something about them: the same
smell, if you know what I mean. Lisa Marriott mentioned that Sally had received a letter and one of the victim’s wives said
he had had a letter too before he died – a letter he didn’t show her – and it was an identical envelope to Sally’s. It might
be nothing. I might be putting two and two together and making five.’
Heffernan looked him in the eye. ‘Yes, Wes, but what does your gut instinct tell you?’
‘I think there’s something in it.’
Heffernan sat back. ‘See what else you can dig up, then. But don’t forget the Chief Super can be very sensitive about his
overtime budget. By the way, did you find anything interesting at Chadleigh Hall?’
‘We might have a name for our skeleton.’
‘About time too.’ The chief inspector looked at his watch. ‘Get along home, Wes. It’s about time your Pam saw something of
you. And that little lad of yours.’
‘Have you had a chance to ask Carole for that meal yet?’
Heffernan looked at Wesley mournfully. ‘Not yet.’
Wesley shut the office door quietly behind him and picked up his jacket, all the time aware that Rachel was watching him.
For several days not much happened. Wesley Peterson felt that he was drifting along on a raft of paperwork, going nowhere
in particular.
There was a quiet despondency in the office. All the enquiries the team had made had yielded nothing. No links had been found
between the possible victims of Wesley’s supposed serial killer. Nothing was found to suggest that any of their suspects had
actually killed Sally Gilbert. All they had was suspicion. Solid evidence was harder to find. Even Gerry Heffernan seemed
unusually subdued.
Wesley felt that he was leaving home each morning to go through the motions, but he tried not to let Pam see his frustration.
He had broken the news of Brenda’s death and she had asked what Kayleigh was going to do: he had discovered that she’d gone
to her grandmother’s in Plymouth, the best arrangement as far as Social Services were concerned. Pam seemed relieved that
at least the child was being looked after by family. She’d been fond of Kayleigh Dilkes.
Pam was looking better and was settling into the holiday routine. She had a chance to be with Michael without watching the
clock, and she had begun to see friends again. Della was a regular visitor while Wesley was at work: she was exploiting her
invalid status and begging lifts to Tradmouth from neighbours and friends. With this newfound domestic tranquillity, Wesley
found himself wondering why he felt so restless.
It was Friday morning when the call came. As soon as the phone on his desk rang Wesley picked it up and recited his name.
Then there was a long silence at the other end of the line before a nervous ‘hello’. A woman – by the sound of her voice not
young – asked whether he was the officer who’d spoken to her neighbour the previous week. Wesley thought for a moment and
then it came to him. Mrs Millwright. The widow of the man from Morbay who had fallen to his death from cliffs near Bloxham
two years before. He had left his card with the formidable neighbour and the message had obviously got through.
But the call didn’t raise his hopes; he expected Mrs Millwright to know as little about her husband’s death as the other victims’
families had. But at least a visit to that street of white bungalows in the Morbay suburbs would get him out of the office.
He would take Rachel with him. Elderly ladies usually took to Rachel.
However, Paula Millwright wasn’t quite as Wesley had imagined. She was a slim woman with a helmet of golden blonde hair –
the type that comes out of a bottle. She
wouldn’t see fifty again but she was determinedly making the most of what assets she had left. As she led them into her pink
sitting room she explained that she’d been away for a few days in the Cotswolds with a friend when they’d called. Wesley guessed
from the sparkle in her eyes that the friend was male.
‘We’re here to ask you a few questions about your late husband’s death,’ Wesley began as he sank into a large pink armchair.
Paula Millwright suddenly looked worried. ‘Why?’
‘It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs Millwright.’ Rachel’s voice was soothing, reassuring, like that of a nurse holding a patient’s
hand during a particularly nasty medical procedure. ‘We’d just like you to tell us what happened on the day he died. We’re
afraid there’s something the police might have missed at the time.’
‘The police tried to make out it was suicide at first. But I never thought he’d killed himself. I told them . . .’
‘Told them what?’ Wesley asked.
‘That it couldn’t have been suicide. He was happy when he went out that day . . . sort of excited, as if he was expecting
something nice to happen. I mean, we’d had problems with money and all that but he said things were looking up.’ She looked
Wesley in the eye. ‘Those were the last words he ever said to me, you know. Don’t worry, pet. Things are looking up.’
‘And you said this at the inquest?’
‘’Course I did. At least the coroner listened to me. He said it was a tragic accident and that people didn’t realise how dangerous
the cliffs were around this part of the coast.’
‘Do you think it was an accident?’
Paula Millwright shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘Well, I still can’t think what he was doing on top of a cliff when he was
supposed to be doing my shopping but I know it wasn’t suicide. He seemed so . . .’ She searched for the word. ‘So optimistic
when he went out.’
‘Why was that, do you think? Had something happened? Is there anything you remember now that you didn’t tell the police at
the time?’
She thought for a few moments. Wesley and Rachel sat on the edge of their seats watching her, willing her to remember something,
anything.
‘Well, I suppose there was the letter.’
Wesley leaned forward, his heart thumping. ‘What letter?’
‘It looked official – not from the Inland Revenue or anything like that; more like one of those letters you get from solicitors:
thick expensive paper and beautifully typed. You know the sort of thing. Marked strictly private and confidential.’
Wesley produced Lisa’s envelope from his pocket and Paula gave a nod of recognition. ‘Yes. It was exactly like that one. How
did you know?’
‘When did it arrive?’
‘A couple of days before he . . .’
‘Did you see what was in it, by any chance?’ If only the woman was nosey; if only she had been in the habit of reading her
husband’s private correspondence.
‘Well, not really. I mean, I only saw a couple of lines.’ She blushed. ‘He’d been very secretive about it so when I found
it lying in his sock drawer . . .’ She looked to Rachel for support. ‘I mean, I didn’t like John having secrets from me. It’s
not on, is it? We’d stuck together for richer, for poorer . . . usually poorer. We’d pulled together when he got made redundant
and money was tight. It’s an awful thing to say but since he died I’ve been so much better off. I mean, the house is mine
now and I did very well out of the insurance. But before that times were very hard. We had to sell our car and I’d have been
worth a fortune now if we hadn’t had to sell off some of our insurance policies. But he’d never sell his life insurance. I
want you to be comfortable if I go, he used to say.’