‘And you’ll give a statement to that effect when we get down to the station?’
Cumbernold pulled himself up to his full height. ‘I’m saying nothing without my solicitor.’
At a nod from Gerry Heffernan, Wesley pulled out his radio and called for a patrol car to take Les to Tradmouth. The wait
would do him good. A bit of stewing would concentrate the mind of Brian Willerby’s next-door neighbour wonderfully.
‘Why didn’t you let me see those photographs at Martha Willerby’s?’ asked Wesley once Cumbernold was safely installed in the
patrol car.
‘That sort of thing isn’t suitable for you. You’re too young and innocent,’ answered Heffernan lightly.
‘And shouldn’t we have taken them as evidence?’ He had known Gerry Heffernan long enough to know that he was hiding something.
‘I can always go back to Mrs Willerby and ask to have a look.’
Heffernan looked at his companion, wondering how best to tell him. It was a few seconds before he found the right words. ‘I
recognised one of the girls in those pictures, Wes.’
‘Lilly?’
‘Not just Lilly, another one. I didn’t want to tell you, Wes, I really didn’t. But … Let’s just put it this way – your mate
Neil’s in for one hell of a shock if he ever finds out.’
‘Claire?’ Somehow Wesley found it hard to believe. It crossed his mind that it might be another of the boss’s jokes – but
he didn’t usually joke about things like this.
‘Yeah. Claire. In all her glory with Willerby. Not a pretty sight if
she happens to be your best mate’s girlfriend. That’s why I didn’t want you to see it, Wes. I was sparing your feelings. I
thought it best if I broke the news gently, like.’
Wesley stopped and thought for a moment, taking in what he’d heard. ‘Does Neil have to know?’
‘Not necessarily. We can have a discreet chat with the lass and see what she’s got to say for herself.’ He looked suddenly
solemn. ‘We’ve got to face the fact that she’s got the means – anyone working here with access to the key to the pavilion
could have got at the mallet thing. The motive – she wants her past kept quiet. And the opportunity – she disappeared back
to the hall half way through the cricket match leaving Neil behind. She could easily have arranged to meet Brian in the woods
and have got there via the gardens. That lad saw him before the match talking to a long-haired woman. For some reason I’d
got it into my head that it must have been Jacintha, or even Martha Willerby. But now I’d say this Claire has some explaining
to do.’
‘What about John Jones? Don’t you reckon the same person killed them both?’ Wesley knew he was trying to persuade Heffernan
– and himself – of Claire’s innocence.
‘Of course, Willerby might have killed Jones for some reason unknown to us,’ mused Heffernan. ‘He was seen there on the night
Jones died: he was burning things in his garden incinerator the morning after, according to Cumbernold. Or alternatively it
might have been someone else entirely; nothing to do with this case.’
‘Have we got the forensic report on Willerby’s car yet?’
‘Not yet. With any luck it’ll arrive some time today. And then there’s the knocking-in mallet. If traces of blood and hair
are found on that then we can be absolutely certain that’s what killed Willerby. At the moment there’s always the awful possibility
that some innocent member of the cricket club might have had it at home lovingly knocking in his new bat and has only just
returned it to the pavilion. It belongs to the whole club, apparently; members just borrow it when they need it. So let’s
just hope it turns out to be our weapon or we’re back to square one.’
Wesley’s mind drifted back to Claire, and he began to think the unthinkable. Whatever his personal loyalties were, he would
have to face the unwelcome possibility that she was involved. ‘Of course, this John Jones might have shared Willerby’s interest
in photography and might have been blackmailing Claire. She might have killed him
too and searched the caravan for any photographs. Her picture was in that newspaper cutting too, remember.’
Heffernan nodded earnestly. ‘The sooner we have a word with Miss Claire O’Farrell, the better. We’ll try not to be too obvious,
eh? Don’t want Neil asking awkward questions.’
Wesley nodded, trying not to think of Neil and the questions he would be bound to ask eventually if he found out about all
this.
But there were other possibilities to be considered, and one of them sprang to mind at that moment. ‘Do you think Les Cumbernold
could be our murderer? He could have got the knocking-in mallet any time and put it back on Sunday night when he nicked the
statues. And he had a motive for getting rid of Willerby. He was going to be sued over those trees. He would have had time
to kill him in the tea interval; he was never in the same place long enough to establish a solid alibi. And don’t forget that
he found the body; or was found near the body by Jake and Jacintha after the match.’
‘Aye. They always say that murderers have the urge to return to the scene of the crime – can’t resist it, some of ’em. I’d
say our Les was another likely candidate. Maybe Willerby found out about his little sideline in nicked architectural antiques.
And, as you say, he had plenty of opportunity to replace the mallet when he pinched the statues.’
‘What time are we interviewing him?’
‘No hurry, Wes. Let him stew till tender, as my cookery book says.’
As they reached the stable block they saw a familiar figure flitting towards the gardens. Claire O’Farrell walked quickly,
frowning with scholarly concentration, a large book of considerable age clutched to her chest.
‘It’s better if I leave you to it,’ Heffernan whispered. He moved away nimbly and disappeared into the stable block. Wesley
was alone.
Claire looked round and spotted him. She hesitated before hurrying on.
‘Claire, can I have a word?’
She swung round and her eyes met Wesley’s. He could tell she was nervous. She stood still, poised for flight. ‘Please, Claire,
I need to talk to you.’
‘He told you, didn’t he?’ she said almost in a whisper.
‘Who?’
‘Neil.’ The way she spoke his name sounded positively murderous.
‘I haven’t seen him since yesterday. He hasn’t told me anything.’ He paused, considering the best way to begin. ‘Brian Willerby’s
wife has some photographs.’
Her expression changed to one of horror. The horror of a trapped animal realising that escape wasn’t an option. Wesley found
himself feeling sorry for her. But he knew that pity was a trap he mustn’t fall into.
‘I’m going to have to talk to you about it sooner or later, Claire, and now’s as good a time as any.’
Claire nodded, resigned to her fate, and Wesley began to walk slowly towards the house. She fell in beside him. ‘Where are
we going?’ she asked.
‘I thought we could walk around the edge of the gardens. I assume that you don’t want Neil to know anything about this. He’s
digging away in the walled garden so he won’t see us.’
‘So you won’t tell him about …’
‘Whatever you tell me will be in the strictest confidence,’ he said, knowing that he was sounding like something from a training
manual but lost for friendlier, more reassuring words.
They walked in silence for a while then, when they were well away from the house, Claire spoke.
‘When I was at university I got into debt. I shared a house with some other girls. They all came from rich families who helped
them out with the exorbitant rent, but I soon found I couldn’t keep up with the rest of them. I had a job in a bar in the
evenings and another in a shop at weekends but it still wasn’t enough. I knew a girl – just an acquaintance – who always seemed
to have a lot of money to splash about and one day she told me about her job. She said she worked as a hostess at a posh place
in Morbay at weekends; said she’d have a word with the manageress and see if there were any vacancies. I was called for an
interview just like with an ordinary job. The woman who interviewed me was called Carlotta. I thought she seemed really respectable,
strait-laced even.’
Wesley nodded. ‘I’ve met her. Go on.’
‘She said her clients liked students. She said they liked someone who could make intelligent conversation. It wasn’t until
I actually started working there that I realised that the clients usually expected more than a cosy chat. I could have stormed
out when I found out
what sort of place it was but I was so desperate for the money by then. I’d built up debts of over five grand so I went along
with it.’
She swallowed hard. ‘The men weren’t nasty or perverted or anything like that: they were mostly just sad, a bit pathetic.
But sometimes I used to be sick afterwards.’ She looked Wesley in the eye challengingly. ‘Are you shocked?’
Wesley shook his head sadly. ‘Tell me about Brian Willerby.’
She walked on by Wesley’s side, her eyes downcast. ‘He took a shine to me and he was a bit of nuisance, to be honest. He visited
about once a week and after a while he started bringing a camera with him. He said he’d cleared it with Carlotta and she didn’t
mind. He took photographs, you know. I told Carlotta I didn’t like it but she just said it was harmless, that he just wanted
a record of what we … Anyway, he started suggesting that we meet at other times. One day he took my address book out of my
handbag and wrote his address down, pleading with me to ring him, to arrange to meet somewhere other than Carlotta’s. I didn’t,
of course. I just scribbled out his address – I didn’t want to be reminded of it. I should have got a new address book but
you know how it is, I never got round to it. Anyway, when I left university I never heard from him again, thank God. I’d paid
off all my debts, got a job with the Earlsacre Trust and put the past behind me. Then when I started here I found out that
Willerby was Martin Samuels’ brother-in-law and that he occasionally did some work for the trust. I just prayed that I’d never
come across him – and that Martin wouldn’t find out.’
‘And did Willerby tell Martin?’
‘No, I don’t think so. In fact I never saw Brian Willerby at Earlsacre until he played in that cricket match. I bumped into
him before the match and, er … I asked him if he still had the photos. He said yes so I had a go at persuading him to give
them back. He said he’d like to see me again. Then he said he’d think about giving the photos back if … Well, you can imagine
the rest.’
‘How long did this conversation last?’
‘A couple of minutes. I didn’t want to spend a second longer than was necessary in that creep’s company.’
‘And was the return of the photos conditional upon you agreeing to see him again?’
She looked at Wesley and gave a bitter smile. ‘I got that impression, yes. But there was no way …’
‘And did you see him talking to anyone else before the match?’
She shook her head and sighed. ‘It would have been better if I could have got a job far away from here in a different part
of the country, but this was such a great opportunity.’
‘Where were you during the tea interval?’
‘I just locked myself away in my office and did some work. I didn’t want to risk bumping into Willerby again. It was hard
to concentrate, of course, but …’
‘Can anybody confirm that?’
She shook her head.
‘Did you see Willerby again that afternoon?’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘Have you ever been in the cricket pavilion?’
‘No. Why?’
Wesley stopped just as they reached the edge of the woodland and produced the photograph of John Jones from his pocket. ‘Do
you know this man?’
Claire took the photograph in her long slim fingers and studied it. ‘No. Sorry.’ She looked at the picture again, more intently.
‘But there’s something vaguely familiar about him. Is this the man who was found dead in that caravan?’
‘That’s right. We’re still trying to identify him.’
But Claire’s mind was on other things. ‘If you know where the pictures are, is there any chance that they can be destroyed?
Please?’
She looked at Wesley appealingly, and he found himself wishing he could lay his hands on the photographs and cast them into
some furnace. It was one thing to have made mistakes in the past but quite another for someone else to possess an explicit
and embarrassing photographic record of them.
‘I’ll see what I can do but I can’t promise anything.’
‘And you won’t tell Neil?’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word.’
She gave a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make a statement.’
‘I know.’ She clutched the old book that she carried closer to her chest. ‘I was just going to take this book to Neil. It’s
a notebook written by Richard Lantrist outlining the work to be done in the gardens. I was going to show Neil the section
on the shell grotto.’ She smiled again, raising her eyes to his. ‘Is it all right if I go back now? I’ll come and see you
later when I know Neil’s out of the way.’
Wesley nodded. ‘See you later, then.’
As Claire hurried away, back towards the gardens and the stable block, she almost collided with a couple who were strolling
towards the house. Wesley recognised the woman as Rachel. She walked close to Charles Pitaway. Their hands were almost touching,
and they seemed to be lost in conversation and each other. Wesley decided to take the long route back to the incident room.
He would leave Rachel and her new lover undisturbed.
‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ said Gerry Heffernan as soon as Wesley reached his desk.
After he had given his boss a quick résumé of Claire’s revelations, Heffernan handed him a couple of sheets of paper. ‘The
police carrier pigeon’s found its way here at last with these two forensic reports stuck in its beak. Brian Willerby’s car’s
clean and that knocking-in mallet thing is definitely the murder weapon: they found traces of Willerby’s skin tissue and hair
in all the relevant crevices, apparently, but it had been wiped clean of fingerprints. So where does that leave us?’
‘It’s always possible that Willerby didn’t murder John Jones; he just visited him for some reason shortly before he died.
Young Billy didn’t hear raised voices when he saw Willerby leaving but his mother claims she heard them, which makes it possible
that Jones had two visitors that night. And I’d say Willerby was murdered by someone who knew about cricket and had access
to the pavilion.’ As Claire, to his knowledge, wasn’t a cricket enthusiast, Wesley found this theory rather comforting. ‘Has
anyone found out where the mallet was before the murder?’