‘This way,’ said her companion pleasantly.
‘That’s her car.’ Wesley jumped out of the driver’s seat and looked around. A tall couple had just emerged from a people carrier
and were busy coaxing two children away from electronic games with dire threats and promises of ice cream.
‘Let’s try the café.’ Wesley made for the entrance and Heffernan followed. Most of the tables inside were occupied but there
was only one person Wesley recognised.
‘Mrs Iddacombe,’ Wesley said as he marched up to her table. ‘Is your husband here with you?’
Mrs Iddacombe shifted in her seat and looked slightly nervous. She was obviously surprised to see them there. ‘He’ll be back
in a minute. We’re here to meet my daughter and the grandchildren.’ She hesitated. ‘Is something wrong, Inspector? Is it about
our cleaner, Brenda? I can’t help thinking of her poor little girl, you know.’
‘It’s not about Brenda this time, Mrs Iddacombe.’ Wesley pulled a smiling snap of Theresa Palsow from his pocket. ‘Have you
seen this woman here today?’
Mrs Iddacombe put on a pair of glasses and stared at the picture, obviously uneasy. She looked up. ‘Here’s my husband,’ she
announced with what sounded like relief.
George Iddacombe had just entered the café. The woman and the two sulky children from the people carrier were with him. The
children were staring at Wesley with undisguised curiosity.
‘George.’ Mrs Iddacombe called her husband over. ‘Isn’t that the woman we saw in the carpark earlier? The one you
said looked a bit . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence.
‘A bit tarty. That’s right, dear.’ He took the photograph from Wesley. ‘Oh yes, that’s her. I saw her going off up the cliff
path. Ridiculous in those shoes.’
‘Was she with anyone?’ Heffernan asked.
‘Yes, I believe she was.’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Can’t say I noticed. Wearing trousers and a hat . . . too far away to see. Sorry.’
Wesley and Heffernan had no time for social niceties. With a quick goodbye they left the Iddacombe tribe to it. They were
in a hurry.
Even though the sun wasn’t shining it was warm and Wesley felt the sweat dripping from his forehead as he followed the ‘Public
Footpath’ signs. Gerry Heffernan lagged behind, talking on his mobile, asking for back-up.
If their hunch was right Theresa Palsow was up here somewhere with the killer. And Wesley only hoped they weren’t too late.
As he hurried along the path he could see the sea to his left. It was a dirty grey today, reflecting the cloudy sky, but there
were plenty of boats bobbing and skimming along its calm surface. Ahead of him were two distant figures. He couldn’t see clearly
but one appeared to be a young woman and the other was taller and shrouded in a thin blue cagoule that billowed out in the
breeze.
He turned to see how Heffernan was doing but his boss was still some distance away, puffing and panting. He shouted a few
well-chosen words of encouragement, but when he turned back he saw that the figure in blue was alone.
It was hard to tell at that distance whether it was a man or a woman. It could have been Sandra; it could even have been Robin
Carrington. The figure disappeared into the bushes that lined the path but there was no time to follow.
Wesley had to know what had become of Theresa
Palsow, but he dreaded the sight of her broken body lying on the rocks below the cliff.
He ran towards the edge, but it seemed an age before he reached the spot where he had last seen her. His legs felt as if they
were weighted with lead as he tried to hurry, but he told himself to move, to summon every ounce of energy. There was a chance,
just a slim one, that he could do something.
He peered down the cliff, feeling a little dizzy as he gazed at the greedy, foaming water lapping around the jagged black
rocks below. He couldn’t see her. Either he had been mistaken in his assumptions and Theresa Palsow had walked away ahead
of her companion into the safety of the bushes or the sea had already carried her body away. He stood, breathless, close to
weeping tears of frustration. Had they been just too late?
Then he heard a small sound over the background roar of the waves below. A squeak – a bird, perhaps. Then the sound came again
and Wesley recognised it as a muffled voice crying for help. He started to jog along the cliff edge, peering down, and suddenly
he spotted a splash of colour against the grey of the rock. A summer dress. Theresa was down there, sobbing and clinging to
the rock face, her feet on a wide grassy ledge. She was safe. She was alive. She had been lucky.
He called down to her to hold on and assessed the chances of getting her up to the top of the cliff by himself. If he climbed
down to her, it would mean that there would be two to rescue instead of one: sometimes heroism only made things worse. He
stood, heart pounding, staring down at her as he took his mobile phone from his pocket. It was probably a job for the rescue
helicopter.
He heard Gerry Heffernan’s breathless voice behind him, asking what was going on.
‘She’s okay, Gerry. She’s managed to reach a ledge. But there’s no way anyone can get down to her safely so I’ve called the
coastguard. You stay with her, eh? Keep her
talking. I’ll get after . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. He supposed the figure in blue had been Sandra Bracewell, but
until he knew for certain, he hardly liked to say the name. And the fact that Robin Carrington was free nagged at the back
of his mind. He had known Brenda; what if he had known Sandra too? What if he was behind the whole scheme? What if it had
been Robin who had disappeared into the bushes?
‘Go on, then,’ Heffernan said, staring down at Theresa, who stood stiffly on her ledge, hardly daring to move.
Wesley guessed that the killer had gone up the higher path and doubled back to the castle. He began to jog back along the
path. He didn’t want to let the murderer get away . . . not when they’d come this far.
All three generations of the Iddacombe family had just emerged from the café, as though they had sensed that something exciting
was about to happen. The children had lost their bored expressions: a real-life police chase was better than any computer
game, but somehow they had expected it to be noiser, more like the telly.
George Iddacombe spotted Wesley and waved him over imperiously. ‘I say. Are you still looking for that young woman?’
‘We’re looking for the person she met. Have you . . .?’
Iddacombe pointed down the road to his right. ‘Someone went down there a minute ago in a terrible hurry. I think it was the
same person who was with the young woman . . . blue cagoule and one of those floppy sunhats. Nearly got run over by a car
. . . some people just don’t look where they’re going.’
Wesley rushed off, leaving George Iddacombe in full flow. He ran down the road, hoping that the killer hadn’t already driven
off.
He ran on, mocked by circling seagulls overhead. As he rounded a bend he saw someone running ahead of him, the figure in the
blue cagoule he had seen with Theresa Palsow
. . . the murderer. But all he could see now was the back of the floppy canvas sunhat he or she wore, he couldn’t see the
face.
He shouted, and as the figure swung round to face him the shock made his heart lurch. He took a deep breath before he spoke.
‘Mrs Sanders, can I have a word?’
Carole Sanders began to move quickly towards a large four-wheel-drive car parked by the roadside, her knuckles so tightly
clenched that they showed as white bones beneath the flesh. She reached the car and fumbled in the pocket of the cagoule.
She turned to Wesley. ‘I’m so glad I’ve seen you, Inspector. I’m just going to ring the emergency services. Something awful’s
happened. Sandra asked me to meet a woman she knew and as we were walking she slipped and fell. My mobile’s in the car.’ She
looked at him innocently. ‘Unless you want to ring . . .’
‘It’s all in hand. She’s okay.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’ Carole put her hand to her heart in a gesture of relief.
‘We know all about the endowment policies.’
‘The what?’
She looked at him, puzzled, innocent, and Wesley hesitated, fearing that he’d got the whole thing wrong. But after a moment
of doubt he decided to continue. There was nothing to lose.
‘It was a while before we latched on to how and why you did it,’ he began, walking towards her slowly. ‘The letters were a
clever idea, and so was putting the account in the names of your cleaning woman and your old school friend. I suppose you
paid them something for opening the account and signing the cheques: I bet they were grateful for a bit of easy money. Did
they know what they were involved in? Or did they find out? Is that why you killed Brenda Dilkes?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Carole Sanders
answered. She sounded confused, so convincing that he was beginning to believe her.
‘We’d like you to answer some questions about an attack on the woman on the cliff top.’ He tried to sound confident but he
didn’t feel it.
‘Attack? I told you . . . she slipped. It was her idea to go as far as the cliffs – I was nervous because I’m not keen on
heights. I told her not to go too near the edge but . . .’
‘Where’s Sandra Bracewell?’ he asked. ‘Her husband said she was on her way to see you.’
He noticed that her hands were clenched tight again, her only sign of unease. ‘She called in on her way into Tradmouth. She
said she had an urgent appointment: that’s why she asked me to meet this woman. She asked me to get a letter off her. She
said it was important.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘How should I know?’ She looked him in the eye, open and innocent. ‘Whenever Sandra’s done it’s got nothing to do with me.
All I did was meet this person for her.’ Her eyes began to brim with tears and she fumbled in the pocket of the cagoule for
a tissue.
Wesley stared at her. He didn’t know what to believe any more.
When they returned to the station Gerry Heffernan shut himself in his office, not to be disturbed. He was only too glad to
leave things to Wesley for the moment.
Wesley was pleased that he had asked him to stay with Theresa until the helicopter arrived. He wouldn’t have wanted him to
witness Carole being pushed into a patrol car. But he couldn’t shield his boss from reality for long.
Carole Sanders was still sticking to her story that Sandra had asked her to keep the rendezvous for her. And she still insisted
that Theresa’s fall was an accident and challenged them to prove otherwise. In any court of law it would be her word against
Theresa’s – and as he had just discovered that Theresa Palsow had a past conviction for obtaining
money by deception perhaps things might not be as straightforward as he’d hoped if Carole got herself a good defence lawyer.
There was no sign of the letter Theresa claimed she had received from Iddacombe Finance: but then Carole could easily have
disposed of it by throwing it into the sea, even though she had said that Theresa fell before she could hand it over.
But Wesley was still uneasy about Sandra Bracewell. She appeared to be missing and the search he had ordered of Gallows House
and its outbuildings had proved fruitless.
He sat at his desk, turning his pen in his fingers, aware that Sandra’s husband, Peter, was downstairs, pacing the station
foyer. He felt for the man. His and Sandra’s relation ship may have started on shaky foundations – the posh schoolgirl from
‘Virgins’ Retreat’ and the builder’s labourer – but it had stood the test of time.
He picked his jacket up from the back of his chair and walked over to Rachel’s desk. ‘If anyone asks I’m going over to Carole
Sanders’ place to see if the uniforms have found anything yet.’ He glanced across at the chief inspector’s office. He could
see Heffernan through the window, head down, pretending to be absorbed in witness statements. There was no need to tell him
where he was going.
He drove the short distance to Gallows House and swung the car into the drive. Ahead of him he saw two police cars parked
next to a pick-up truck. Three men were unloading stone flags from the back of the truck. One of them, the youngest, stopped
what he was doing.
‘What’s going on?’ There was a look of concern on Sam Heffernan’s face. ‘The police won’t tell us anything. Has there been
a break-in? Is Mrs Sanders all right?’
Wesley saw that Sam’s two colleagues were watching him with expectant curiosity but he didn’t feel inclined to give too much
away. ‘We’re investigating a serious crime but Mrs Sanders is unharmed,’ he said, aware that he was sounding as if he were
reading a formal statement to the press.
Sam shrugged. ‘Okay. I’ll have to ask Dad about it tonight, then.’
‘I wouldn’t, Sam.’
‘Why not?’
‘Leave it a couple of days, eh?’
Sam looked at Wesley, puzzled.
‘So can we unload this stuff or not?’ asked one of Sam’s colleagues hopefully, searching for some excuse to slope off.
Wesley looked at the York stone slabs waiting to be taken round to the back of the house, and he couldn’t help wondering whether
Carole Sanders would be in a position to appreciate her newly landscaped garden for the foreseeable future. ‘Well, I suppose
you might as well get on with it, as you’re here.’
Slowly, reluctantly, Sam’s fellow workers began to unload the slabs and take them round the side of the house. Wesley, following
behind, heard a barrage of colourful oaths and when he reached the back garden he found the three men standing there, staring
at the spot where the patio would soon be laid.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
‘Some bugger’s been digging this up. We left it all even last night ready to work on it tomorrow. Look at it.’ The young man
stared at Wesley accusingly. ‘Was it one of your lot? Bloody police,’ he added under his breath as an afterthought.
Wesley looked down. A rectangular hole about three feet deep had been dug in the smooth sandy soil. The uniformed officers
who’d searched the place had assumed it was the gardeners’ work.
‘Was Mrs Sanders expecting you today?’ he asked the puzzled gardeners.