‘So what wasn’t she telling you?’
‘She seemed too anxious to dismiss the surgery they did there as trivial but I’d like to find out more.’
‘We’ll probably need a warrant. And it’s hard to get a warrant on a hunch. I should know, I’ve tried it often enough.’
Trish smiled. ‘I’ve got an idea. You know these drugs trials? If I went along as a volunteer, I could get the feel of the
place.’
Gerry looked at her in alarm. ‘Oh no, Trish. I’m not going to let you do anything like that. That bloke called Carl Utley
ended up … well, we don’t really know how he ended up, do we? We haven’t seen him yet.’
‘I know one of the other DCs has been trying his number regularly and a couple of them have visited his address several times.
They said there was no sign of life – perhaps he’s away.’
‘I think it’s about time we made a real effort to have a word with Mr Utley,’ said Gerry. ‘As soon as we make contact I’ll
pay him a visit.’
He suddenly felt like getting out of the office. And he was keeping his fingers crossed that Carl Utley would soon give him
the perfect excuse.
‘Mrs Ackerley?’ Wesley offered his hand and Sandra Ackerley shook it weakly. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Peterson. I believe
your mother left for Devon a week ago.’
‘That’s right.’ She glanced at Nick Tarnaby who was standing glumly by her side, hands in pockets.
‘I’ve tried everyone who knows her but nobody’s heard of a Pat who lives round here. What are you doing to find her?’ She
gave Nick Tarnaby a sideways look. ‘This young man here doesn’t seem to know what’s going on.’
‘Let’s talk about your mother, shall we?’ Wesley said, smoothing the waters. He turned to Nick. ‘It’s OK, Nick, you get back
to the incident room if you like.’
Tarnaby hesitated for a moment then slouched out of the hotel foyer and disappeared through the swing doors into the rainy
street outside. Wesley knew Nuala Johns was still in the bar so he looked around for a suitable haven. He spotted a door marked
‘Residents’ Lounge’. Sandra was booked
in to the hotel for the night which made her a resident so he led her towards the closed door, glancing at the bar entrance
and hoping that Nuala wouldn’t emerge and break the spell. He could tell Sandra was ready to talk. And he needed to learn
everything he could about Mabel Cleary.
The Residents’ Lounge was reassuringly old fashioned; painted in dark red with glowing mahogany furnishings, it had the feel
of a gentlemen’s club, a warm refuge from the bustle of the outside world. Once Sandra had made herself comfortable on a well-worn
Chesterfield sofa, Wesley sank into a neighbouring armchair.
‘I suppose they’ll be putting the Christmas decorations up soon,’ said Sandra absentmindedly.
‘They get earlier every year,’ said Wesley. It was something he’d heard his mother say often and he felt the familiarity of
the subject would establish some rapport.
But he was wrong. She burrowed in her handbag, pulled out a clean tissue and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I want mum home for Christmas.
I can’t even begin to think what it’d be like without her. You’ve got to find her. I won’t be fobbed off with excuses.’
Wesley leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find her.’ He hoped he was right and he hoped she couldn’t see through the mask
of forced optimism.
He decided to get one of the key questions out of the way first. ‘Er, this might sound strange but has your mother been in
hospital for surgery recently?’ He wanted to make absolutely sure she had no connection to the corpse in the river.
‘No. Why?’
‘And she’s had no health problems at all?’ It was possible that she’d been keeping something from her daughter;
that she’d travelled to Devon far away from home to have treatment secretly so as not to worry her family.
‘She has a heart condition – angina – I have to keep an eye on her to make sure she’s taking her medication and living healthily.
She can be difficult at times – defiant like a small child – so she needs to be watched. But apart from that …’
‘We’ve seen the copy of the letter she received from Pat. I don’t suppose you’ve managed to find your mother’s address book?’
Sandra shook her head. ‘She must have taken it with her.’
‘And you’re sure she got on the coach to Morbay?’
‘Oh yes. I gave her a lift to the coach station myself. I had a word with the coach driver – asked him to keep an eye on her.
And she said she was being met at the other end so I didn’t think there’d be any harm in letting her go. I told her to keep
her mobile on at all times but … well, she’s gone and switched it off.’
Wesley knew most of this already. Someone from uniform had already spoken to the coach driver. Mabel Cleary had alighted at
Morbay coach station. But he hadn’t seen where she went after that.
‘I presume she hasn’t done anything like this before.’
‘Of course not. If she had, I wouldn’t have let her go.’
‘And did she ever talk about Devon? Or mention anybody she knew here?’
Sandra started to pick at a jagged nail. ‘I knew she’d been evacuated down here but she used to change the subject whenever
I mentioned it.’
She delved in the large canvas bag she was nursing on her knee and brought out a cardboard file. She handed it
to Wesley. Inside he found a sheaf of typed A4 paper with the logo of Home Counties Libraries in the front.
Reminiscences of a Wartime Evacuee
.
‘I found this in her flat. There’s a lot about where she stayed. It was a place called Tailors Court. It’s the name Pat mentioned
in her letter. There’s no mention of a Pat in here but the library say it’s not finished – she made more recordings but they
haven’t been transcribed yet so …’
Wesley sat in silence for a few moments. He longed to snatch the file from Sandra’s fingers and find out exactly what Mabel
had to say about Tailors Court. But he had more questions to ask first. He decided on the straightforward approach. ‘We’ve
made some interesting discoveries at Tailors Court recently. I don’t know whether you’ve read about it in the paper or …’
‘I never read the papers,’ she said quickly. ‘Haven’t got time.’
‘Some skeletons have been found in the grounds.’
Sandra’s hand went to her mouth.
‘They seem to date back to the sixteenth century. Apart from one. The bones of a child – a boy – were found some way away
from the others. And from certain items found in the grave, it appears they date from around the time your mother was there.
You see why we’re so concerned.’
Sandra sat for a while, stunned. ‘You think mum witnessed something and someone’s silenced her?’
It was rather a melodramatic way of putting it but that just about summed up Wesley’s suspicions perfectly.
‘It’s a line of enquiry we’ll be following up. I take it you’ve read that file?’
‘Yes. I read it on the train. It’s all about how she got sent to Tailors Court and who she met there.’
‘May I?’
She handed him the file. ‘She mentions a character called Miles who sounds a bit …’ She searched for the right word.
‘Suspicious?’
‘Strange. But he was in his twenties then, according to this, so he’ll probably be dead now.’
Wesley nodded. Miles was the name of Esther Jannings’s husband who, according to his widow, had died shortly after their wedding.
But even if Miles hadn’t been dead, it was unlikely that he’d still be fit enough to go round murdering people to stop them
talking about something that happened over sixty-five years ago – even if that something was the murder of a child.
Wesley stood up. ‘I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here, Mrs Ackerley. This place has a very good reputation. I’d better get
back to the incident room. Somebody will be along to see you later.’
Sandra frowned. ‘You’ll find her, won’t you?’
‘We’ll do our very best,’ said Wesley.
Rachel sat at her desk, staring into space and trying to decide whether to call the Hayneses to ask how Mary was.
She felt the blood rising to her face as memories flashed through her brain – memories that made her heart freeze with embarrassment.
The consumption of too much strong cider at a friend’s seventeenth birthday party on a summer evening in Tradington Village
Hall. Flirting with Nigel Haynes and leading him outside. The warm July night and the damp grass that left stains on the back
of her dress. The lovemaking, uncomfortable, barely enjoyed and hardly remembered in the fermented apple fog.
Afterwards Nigel had seemed to take it for granted that they were going out together but Rachel had just wanted to forget
all about what happened so she’d refused to take his calls and had avoided him until he gave up.
The unaccustomed loss of control and the vague memory of vomiting on the grass in front of him still made her heart shrivel
with shame. But she couldn’t put off facing Nigel Haynes for much longer. She kept telling herself that it was a long time
ago and that he probably wouldn’t even remember and this thought gave her the courage to reach for the receiver.
But before she could pick it up the telephone rang. She reached over to answer it but when she heard silence on the other
end of the line, punctuated by what sounded very much like heavy breathing, she almost slammed the receiver down again. But
something made her stop and listen and after half a minute or so a husky voice asked if that was the police.
‘Yes. This is Neston Police Station. Dalcott enquiry incident room.’
‘I want to speak to a detective.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Tracey. What can I do for you?’
There was another long pause, as though the caller was gathering his thoughts. Or at least Rachel assumed it was a he – it
was rather hard to tell.
‘Dalcott worked at a clinic,’ the caller said. He seemed to have lowered his voice but Rachel was reluctant to ask him to
speak up.
‘Which clinic are you talking about?’
There was another long silence.
Rachel decided to go for it. ‘Is it the Podingham Clinic?’
Another pause. ‘How did you know?’
Rachel resisted the urge to say something facetious like ‘We’re detectives, it’s our job to know.’ Instead she uttered a formal
‘It’s come up in our enquiries.’
‘Yeah. Right,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘So you know about the place already?’
‘I’m sure we don’t know everything. If there’s something you’d like to tell us, we’d be very grateful.’ She tried her best
to sound grateful but it was something she couldn’t quite manage.
She heard the caller take a deep breath. ‘There’s something going on there. I think there’s been a murder.’
Her eyes scanned the open-plan office, all embarrassing recollections of Nigel Haynes now forgotten. She could see Gerry Heffernan
sitting at his desk and she waved frantically in his direction. When she caught his attention he stood up and began to walk
towards her. He had understood. She pressed the speaker button on the phone as Gerry perched his large frame on the corner
of her desk. He looked at her enquiringly and she cleared her throat.
‘Can you tell me who’s been murdered?’ She glanced at Gerry. He was sitting quite still with his head cocked to one side,
listening carefully.
‘Dunno. I just know someone’s dead.’
‘Can you tell me how you came by this information?’
‘I just saw it, didn’t I? With my own eyes.’
Gerry was making enthusiastic hand signals – he wanted to talk to the caller himself.
‘Look, I’m passing you over to DCI Heffernan. He’s in charge of the Dalcott case and –’
Before the caller could answer Gerry took the receiver and introduced himself. Through the speaker Rachel
heard the caller emit a wary grunt of acknowledgement. It would be up to the DCI to establish some trust.
‘Look, if there’s something dodgy about that clinic, I want to find out what’s going on. I don’t like talking about something
like this over the phone so can we meet up?’
‘I don’t go out.’
‘Well, I’ll come to you then. No problem. Where can I find you?’
The caller hesitated. ‘As long as it’s clear that I had nothing to do with Dalcott’s murder.’
‘Why should we think that?’
No answer.
‘What’s your name?’
The line went dead.
‘I’ll get someone to trace the call,’ Rachel said, preparing to move away.
‘No need, love. I know who it was.’
Rachel saw a wide grin spread across the boss’s plump face. He beamed at her benevolently.
‘Who’s been avoiding us? Who had a bad experience at the Podingham Clinic which he blamed on James Dalcott?’
Rachel felt annoyed with herself for not catching on quicker. But then she’d had a lot on her mind. ‘Carl Utley?’
‘Let’s get over there, shall we?’
‘So what’s all this about a murder at the clinic?’
Gerry winked and reached for his coat.
As he was walking back to Neston Police Station Wesley looked down at the file he was holding. Mabel Cleary’s
memories of a childhood spent with strangers. He’d already had a peep at the introductory section which explained that the
library service where Mabel lived had started the project to record the memories of people who’d lived through the Second
World War. The people involved were given equipment to record their reminiscences. Then the results were transcribed and kept
in the library, available as a living history resource for future generations. Wesley thought it was an interesting idea.
And important. Too many fascinating memories of momentous events had died with their witnesses.
He checked the time. He had just passed a wholefood café housed in the ground floor of a tall Elizabethan building at the
end of Neston’s steep narrow High Street. It had a chalked menu outside and the facia was painted in vibrant African patterns.
He hadn’t told Gerry Heffernan what time he’d be back so he reckoned he wouldn’t be missed if he went into the café and read
Mabel’s account of her wartime years over a cup of tea. It would be preferable to the incident room with its ringing telephones
and the eternal possibility of interruption.
He went inside, sat down at an empty table and ordered a pot of Darjeeling from a young woman dressed in rusty black with
an interesting array of facial piercings. Once the tea was poured, he took the papers out of the file and began to read.