‘Will you interview him or shall I?’ Wesley asked nervously.
‘Rather you than me. I said someone’d be round to have a word this afternoon. He’s travelling back to London tonight. We can
both go if you like. Moral support.’
‘We’ll need it. I’ve seen grown men turned into quivering jellies by Jack Cromer.’
Rachel smiled. ‘But don’t forget, it’s us who’ll be asking the questions this time. Shall we go over to Derenham and get it
over with?’
As they were about to leave the office a young uniformed constable handed Wesley a sheet of paper.
‘What is it?’ asked Rachel, hoping it was nothing that would take Wesley away and oblige her to face Jack Cromer alone.
Wesley studied the paper for a few seconds. ‘It’s the report on Jonny Shellmer’s car. The only fingerprints found on the driver’s
side belonged to Shellmer, the two lads who stole it and – surprise, surprise – Paul Heygarth. I think that lets Yossa and
his mate out and puts Heygarth firmly back in the frame.’
‘Unless the killer told them about the car – boasted where he’d dumped it. Unless …’
Wesley was halfway out of the door. He stopped and turned to face her. ‘Unless what?’
‘Unless Jonny Shellmer was killed by Lewis Hoxworthy. He had the gun.’
‘Go on,’ said Wesley. She had his full attention now. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Wesley. Shellmer was killed in a house
just next door to Hoxworthy’s land. Lewis had a gun and his mates are found in possession of the dead man’s car. Then Lewis
disappears. Young as he is, I think he’s got to be a suspect. Don’t you?’
‘Motive?’
‘I don’t know.’ She hesitated for a few moments, turning possibilities over in her mind. ‘What if Jonny Shellmer, Alec Treadly
and Paul Heygarth were abusing Lewis? What
if Shellmer was a paedophile too?’
‘There’s no evidence of that. And at the moment we’ve no evidence that Alec Treadly had ever had any contact with Lewis.’
‘Paedophiles can be good at covering their tracks.’
‘Have you mentioned this theory to anyone else yet?’ Rachel shrugged. ‘I bounced the idea off a few of the DCs in the office.
They didn’t think it was too far fetched. Do you?’
Wesley hesitated before answering. He needed time to think it over. ‘The boss and I will be having a word with Shellmer’s
ex-wife when Merseyside police track her down. If there’s any dirt to be found on him she’s bound to have chapter and verse,
even if he’s been on his best behaviour with Sherry Smyth. And I think we need to talk to Paul Heygarth again. The boss is
convinced he’s hiding something, and now it looks as if he’s right.’
‘He might be part of a paedophile ring too. They might all be involved.’
Wesley sighed. ‘Come on. Let’s go and have another word with Yossa Lang. Then we can give Jack Cromer a good grilling – let
him have a taste of his own medicine.’
He left the station deep in thought. Things weren’t getting any easier.
Gerry Heffernan had to get out of the interview room. Sitting facing Alec Treadly across the narrow table for two and a half
hours, breathing in the sharp odour of his sweat, was not his ideal way of spending a Sunday lunch-time.
Treadly swore that he had never met Lewis Hoxworthy. He had been behaving himself, trying to mend his ways, he assured Heffernan
and Steve, looking from one to the other in an attempt to convince. He would sometimes go over to Morbay and watch the kiddies
playing in the park, he said with studied innocence. But it was a case of look and don’t touch. And he certainly hadn’t touched
Lewis – he swore that on his mother’s life. He’d never even seen the boy. He
was trying to put the past behind him, he protested self-righteously, so why did the police keep harassing him?
But Gerry Heffernan had known that he was hiding something. Whether it was to do with his past inclinations or something entirely
different he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to let him go, even though Treadly’s keen young solicitor, a young man with
a lot of chunky gold jewellery and very little hair, was sitting there glowering at him, hostile and impatient.
Then came the confession. Alec Treadly admitted that before they had moved abroad Colonel and Mrs Porter had gone to visit
their daughter in Scotland. They had left his mother with the key to the Old Vicarage and asked her to water their house plants.
Alec had taken the key into Tradmouth to be copied, thinking that when they moved abroad it might come in useful.
Quietly, almost shamefaced, he admitted to the systematic theft of small items from the house which he sold to local antique
dealers. Nothing too big or valuable – just the odd silver spoon here, the odd Spode plate and silver photo frame there. Nothing
they’d miss when their stuff was finally shipped over; nothing that couldn’t be blamed on the removal men or the estate agent.
Alec used the money for his little flutters on the gee-gees, as he put it.
When PC Johnson had caught him up at the house, he had been about to carry away a rather nice Crown Derby milk jug. He had
known it was wrong, he assured the chief inspector. But the temptation of having what was in effect his own private cashpoint
a hundred yards up the Old Vicarage drive was too much to resist. He had no suggestions to make about the break-in. All he
could say was that he hadn’t been responsible. He hadn’t needed to break a pane of glass in the kitchen door: he had a key.
He had never seen a gun in his life, he assured them. Neither had he seen Lewis Hoxworthy – he wasn’t even aware of the boy’s
existence. He had never met Jonny Shellmer although he had heard of him. He hadn’t been up
at the Old Vicarage at the time of the murder. The last time he had been inside the building was over a week ago.
Then he sat back in his plastic chair and announced that he had told them everything and he wasn’t saying any more. At that
point Heffernan charged him with the thefts and handed him over into the custody sergeant’s tender care.
He couldn’t stand one more minute in the company of the greasy-haired creep and his chippy solicitor. He needed to get out
into the clean fresh air, blow the cobwebs out. He needed to spend a couple of hours on the river.
Yossa Lang’s mother had sworn to the magistrate that she’d keep a better eye on her son in future. It was the first time her
Joseph – as she called him in court – had ever crashed a stolen car and she wouldn’t let it happen again. She would make sure
he didn’t get into more trouble.
But somehow Donna Lang didn’t associate all her righteous protestations in the magistrates’ court with the realities of everyday
life. It would never have occurred to her to forgo an evening down at the Coach and Horses in order to stay in and ‘keep an
eye’ on Yossa. He was fifteen, hardly a baby. Besides, there was a lorry driver who had taken to buying her drinks. Why shouldn’t
she have a bit of fun?
She had just left the house when the doorbell rang. Yossa, slumped in front of the television watching a horror video, let
it ring twice more before he wiped his greasy, pizza-stained fingers on his jeans and bothered to answer it.
He opened the front door and looked Rachel and Wesley up and down. ‘What is it?’ he asked, mentally composing the complaint
he was going to send in about police harassment.
‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions, Joseph.’ Rachel tried her best to sound friendly, but she was aware that she was
failing miserably. ‘It’s nothing to do with the car – we just want you to help us find your friend, Lewis.’
He stood aside to let them in and watched warily as they
sat down. He didn’t trust the police. They were trouble.
‘Have you ever heard any of these names before, or have you heard Lewis mention them?’ She recited the names of Paul Heygarth
and Alec Treadly and received a blank stare in return. It was only when she mentioned Jonny Shellmer that there was a flicker
of recognition in Yossa’s eyes.
‘That’s the one who got shot near Lewis’s place. My mum said she used to have some of his records a long time ago,’ he added,
as if Rock Boat’s heyday was as distant to him as the age of the dinosaurs.
Rachel and Wesley left a few minutes later, none the wiser, and headed for Derenham.
Half an hour later they drew up outside Jack Cromer’s house in the centre of Derenham village, just opposite the Red Bull.
After the Winterham estate, the village of Derenham seemed like paradise itself.
‘Nice place,’ Rachel said with a touch of envy.
Shipwreck House was a substantial double-fronted structure painted pristine white, with spring flowers tumbling from window
boxes and wooden tubs placed either side of the front door.
‘How much do you reckon it’s worth?’ she asked. ‘Half a million? Six hundred thousand? More?’
‘More than a policeman can afford,’ Wesley replied with a sad smile. ‘Not an honest one, anyway. There was an inspector I
knew at the Met who was done for taking bribes from drug dealers – he had a big place in Essex. I’d always thought he was
a good bloke until it all came out … you never can tell.’
‘You always think too well of people,’ said Rachel with a shy smile.
‘After a few years in this job?’ Wesley laughed. ‘You must be joking. Come on, let’s go and grill Jack Cromer. It’ll be a
new experience for him to be on the receiving end.’
‘I think you’re looking forward to this,’ Rachel observed
mischievously as they got out of the car.
Wesley marched up to the front door of Shipwreck House, rang the polished brass doorbell and waited.
Jack Cromer himself answered the door, dressed for the river in white trousers and a Guernsey sweater. A pair of navy blue
deck shoes completed the ensemble, but somehow Wesley had the impression that, unlike Gerry Heffernan, the man wouldn’t know
one end of a boat from the other.
He invited them in, his sharp, watchful eyes assessing their every move … but paying particular attention to Rachel’s legs.
They were shepherded into the living room, which was large, low beamed and filled with antiques, many of a nautical nature.
This was a retreat far from the stress and sophistication of London, but high on creature comforts.
Wesley and Rachel sank side by side into a soft leather sofa and were offered tea by a stunning blonde, at least twenty years
Cromer’s junior. The standard-issue second wife, Rachel thought; a trophy wife won by fame and money.
Jack Cromer sat down in an armchair facing them and looked Wesley in the eye. He was a tall man in his early fifties, his
thick dark hair greying at the temples. He had keen, watchful eyes which, combined with an aquiline nose, gave him a hawkish
quality.
‘I’m always happy to help the police in any way I can, Inspector,’ he began in the deep, smooth Scottish voice familiar to
millions of television viewers. ‘But I really don’t see how I can be of much use to you.’
‘Did you ever meet Mr Shellmer?’ Wesley asked.
‘Just the once. I was doing a programme on the negative influence of pop music on kids and we had some big rock star lined
up to take part. He dropped out at the last minute so my researchers found a replacement which turned out to be Jonny Shellmer.
Apart from that, our paths never crossed.’
‘How did the interview go? Was it …’ Wesley searched for the right word. ‘Controversial? Did you part amicably?’ Knowing Cromer’s
interviewing techniques, he’d have been surprised if there hadn’t been a little metaphorical blood spilt.
Cromer shook his head. ‘The original guy I’d lined up was someone who gave parents nightmares. That’s what people watch my
shows for, a bit of controversy, a few lost tempers. But Jonny Shellmer was rather tame by comparison and consequently it
wasn’t much of a show – in fact Shellmer came over as quite a reasonable guy,’ he added with what sounded like disappointment.
‘Did you know he was moving to Derenham?’ Rachel asked.
‘I saw an article in the local rag saying he’d made a donation to the village hall appeal fund.’ He paused. ‘I’ve, er, been
considering making a donation myself, as a matter of fact – got to do what you can for the community, haven’t you.’
Wesley nodded. He suspected any donation would be attended by the maximum publicity – Jack Cromer didn’t strike him as a man
who would do something for nothing.
‘Can you tell us where you were last Wednesday, sir?’ Wesley asked politely. He saw Rachel watching him.
‘Wednesday? I was recording my show on Wednesday,’ answered Cromer with easy confidence.
‘And you came to Derenham on …?’
‘Friday.’
Wesley tried again. ‘How do you explain the fact that your telephone number is in the front of Jonny Shellmer’s address book?’
Wesley produced the small leather-bound book and passed it to Cromer. Cromer passed it back to him, apparently puzzled. He
looked a little less sure of himself now.
‘I really don’t know, Inspector. It’s a total mystery. Perhaps he intended to contact me about something in the future and
somebody had given him my number. I really
don’t know. I certainly didn’t give him my number, and I can assure you that he hasn’t called me. As I said, I’ve only met
the man once, and then we hardly said a word to each other off the screen.’
It was Rachel who spoke next, tentatively, as though Cromer’s overbearing presence had cowed her a little. ‘How long have
you lived here, Mr Cromer?’
He looked at her and smiled, a charming but predatory smile which disappeared as soon as his wife entered the room with a
tray of bone-china cups and saucers. ‘We’ve had the place eighteen months now, haven’t we, darling?’
The wife nodded her blond head and set about distributing the drinks.
‘We divide our time between here and London. You know how it is – busy, busy, busy. I wish we could spend all our time down
here but …’
‘Was the telephone number changed when you moved in?’ Cromer shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. No.’
‘Who owned the house before you?’
Wesley looked at her, impressed. Of course, the number in Shellmer’s address book could have been a few years old. It was
a good line of questioning and he wished he’d thought of it himself.