‘I thought you worked at an animal sanctuary.’
‘Oh no. That’s my mother’s brainchild.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve done profiling work for the Devon and Cornwall force – the two murders
in Plymouth last year and the attacks on elderly women in Truro.’
‘Of course. That’s where I’ve seen you before. You came to Tradmouth to observe an interview with one of the Plymouth suspects.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You had some success I seem to remember.’
Guy smiled modestly. ‘He got life with a recommendation that he serve at least twenty years. Della tells me you’re trying
to find out who attacked that girl on the road to Hugford. My mother’s sanctuary’s in Hugford and the police came round to
ask if she’d seen anything. Have you made any progress?’
Wesley really didn’t want to talk about work so he muttered the usual platitudes about the investigation being on-going and
following a number of leads. Guy looked a little disappointed: he probably wanted chapter and verse so that he could report
back to his nervous mother. Or maybe he was after another paid assignment with the police.
But Guy wasn’t to be discouraged. ‘From what I’ve read in the press, it sounds as though it might be connected to that attack
in Neston last month.’
Wesley forced his mind back to the case, even though his stomach had started to rumble and he could see a plate of curry and
rice sitting beside the microwave – his dinner. ‘We’re considering the possibility,’ he said. ‘Masks were involved in both
attacks.’
‘The perpetrator wanted to hide his identity … and frighten the victim. He wanted to be in control.’
‘So, in your professional opinion, you’d say the attacks were definitely linked?’
‘Well, of course I don’t have access to the finer details but I’d say yes. They’re too close geographically for there to be
no connection.’
‘But the first victim was unharmed and he ran away after a quick grope and in the second attack there didn’t seem to be a
sexual element – he just tried to strangle her.’
‘Maybe he found a quick grope wasn’t enough for him. The first attack would have been experimental.’ He hesitated. ‘Look,
I’m not touting for business or anything like that but I really think I could be of use if …’
‘Thanks. I’ll mention it to DCI Heffernan – he’s the Senior Investigating Officer.’
Guy nodded. ‘I’d be happy to help.’
‘Thank you for the kitten, by the way,’ Wesley said. ‘The children love her. Did Pam tell you they can’t agree on a name?
Michael suggested we call her after the Egyptian cat goddess but Amelia hates that and wants to call her Kitty. At the moment
she’s just The Kitten but we’ll have to come up with a compromise soon.’
‘I’m sure you’ll think up something suitable,’ Guy said, squatting down to stroke the little creature who had started to paw
a toy mouse, batting it to and fro.
Wesley could smell the curry and his stomach churned again. It seemed rather rude to help himself while there were guests
in the kitchen but as he was considering the problem Della announced they were leaving. She was going out for a drink with
friends and Guy had to get back to Morbay, she said, almost with a schoolgirl giggle. Wesley made polite
noises and shook Guy’s hand again. As soon as they’d shut the front door behind them, Pam rushed in.
‘Before I forget, Neil phoned earlier. He said to ask you if you knew anything about four women being murdered.’
Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘When and where?’ he asked as he put the curry in the microwave.
‘Don’t ask me.’
Wesley pulled out his mobile phone and dialled Neil’s number. But all he heard was a voicemail message.
Karen Mayers had promised her daughter that she’d be in by seven. But it was ten past now.
Clare felt uneasy in the empty house and kept asking herself why she had discharged herself from hospital so hastily. The
food left a lot to be desired there but at least she hadn’t had to make it herself.
The bread she found in the cupboard was cheap, white and a little stale and the packet of ham in the fridge was a day past
its sell-by date, but Clare was hungry so she made herself a sandwich. She had assumed that the excruciating pain she felt
when she swallowed would disappear now that she was out of a hospital bed but her first bite of the sandwich tasted like a
mouthful of barbed wire and she spat it out into the sink.
Luckily, she found a half-empty tub of vanilla ice cream in the freezer, tore it open and spooned it into her mouth. It tasted
good and it slipped down just fine, its coolness soothing her tender throat.
As she was scraping the final precious spoonful from the tub the doorbell rang and she froze, holding the spoon in midair.
Creeping into the unlit hall, she could make out a
shadowy figure behind the glass in the front door. When the doorbell rang again she tiptoed into the living room and crept
over to the small bay window, craning her neck, holding her breath, praying that whoever it was wouldn’t look in her direction.
But when she saw that it was Vicky Page standing there, arms folded, beneath the outside light, she felt a wave of relief.
Vicky reached out her hand and rang the bell again and the angry determination of the gesture told Clare that she was annoyed.
Clare hurried into the hall, flicking the light on as she passed the switch. She had kept Vicky waiting long enough and she
wouldn’t be in a good mood. As soon as the door opened Vicky stepped indoors, scowling impatiently, almost pushing her out
of the way.
‘I want a word,’ she said as she stalked through to the kitchen. When she reached the table she sat down on the chair Clare
had been using and looked her in the eye. ‘I need you to promise you’ll keep quiet about what I told you on Sunday night.
The others have all agreed. I don’t need you ruining things. If my mum and dad got to hear about it …’
Clare nodded meekly. Vicky wasn’t the sort of person you crossed.
For Analise Sonquist Tuesday nights were special. On Tuesdays she moved in another, more exciting world.
Since moving to England she’d discovered that the life of an au pair has its downside. Mrs Crest insisted on everything being
done her way but Analise could deal with that. She spooned the organic vegetarian baby food into young Alexander’s mouth obediently
first thing in the morning while Mrs Crest was tearing round the huge kitchen, preparing for
work. But once Mrs Crest wasn’t there to see, all that changed and Analise was glad that Alexander – she was never allowed
to call him Alex – was too young to tell his mother about the turkey nuggets, the packets of crisps and the biscuits she gave
him to ensure his good behaviour.
Analise knew that Mr Crest – do call me Clive – would have tried to get her into bed, given half the chance. He was a small,
smooth, balding man – a partner in a firm of Morbay solicitors – and the thought of him running his little hairless hands
over her naked body made Analise feel slightly sick, although there were times she suspected that there might be another woman
somewhere in the background; a secret he was careful to keep to himself. She had always had a nose for such things.
However, Clive wasn’t the person to fear in the Crest household. Mrs Crest – Suzie – was firmly in charge – or, to quote a
peculiar English phrase Analise had heard, she ‘wore the trousers’. Suzie was something quite high up in Morbay’s local government
offices: Analise wasn’t quite sure what she actually did but whatever it was, it took up a lot of her time and ensured that
most nights Alexander received little more than a goodnight kiss from his loving mother.
And when Suzie wasn’t at work she always had something to occupy her time: yoga class on Monday; French evening class on Wednesday;
badminton on Thursday; amateur dramatics on Friday; and an assortment of social activities at weekends. Tuesday was the one
night Suzie set aside to dedicate to her baby – although he was usually in bed – therefore Tuesday was Analise’s night off.
Her only night of freedom.
Before leaving the house, Analise studied her reflection in the hall mirror. She looked good and she knew he wouldn’t
be able to resist her tonight. She zipped up her white quilted jacket and pulled on her woollen beret. It was cold out there
with the wind blowing in from the river.
Tonight the meeting place was Tradmouth Castle but she had to meet Kristina first. Kristina, also from Norway, was her fellow
au pair, stationed with a family in nearby Stoke Beeching. They usually met up for a drink in Tradmouth on Tuesdays with two
other girls from the Hands Across the Sea Agency – one French, one Spanish – to compare notes and air grievances to sympathetic
ears. But Analise wouldn’t be staying long. She had a more exciting meeting arranged.
She slipped out into the darkness and began to walk the quarter of a mile into Tradmouth. In the summer there would have been
a lot of people around; tourists strolling in the evening sun. But on a damp night in late February the road was deserted.
She spent fifty minutes with the girls in the Tradmouth Arms down by the quayside, making a single bottle of lager last the
whole time. But her mind wasn’t on the shared gossip and the laughter of an evening’s precious freedom: she knew he would
be waiting for her up by the castle and she longed to see him and feel his arms around her. The girls knew about him, of course
– it wasn’t something she’d been able to keep to herself – and they wished her a slightly envious goodnight as she left the
pub, tingling with delicious anticipation.
She retraced her steps along the road leading to the castle, thrusting her hands into her pockets as she passed the houses
on the fringe of the town; houses with nautical names, built for retired naval officers, unwilling to move beyond the sight
and smell of the sea. The road became steep here and she could just make out the lights of Queenswear shining like
stars through the veil of sea mist that reached down to the black shifting waters of the River Trad. The trees ahead formed
a tunnel over the narrow road and the descending mist swirled like spectres around their bare branches. She could hear her
footsteps echoing in the darkness. Or perhaps it wasn’t an echo; perhaps it was someone following behind. But when she turned
her head the road seemed empty and she told herself it was just her imagination.
Last time she had been down this road it had been a crisp sunny day but now it resembled the set of a horror movie, scented
with the clinging smell of rotting vegetation, the scent of decay. But he was meeting her at the end of the road so everything
would be OK. It was always OK when he was around.
She carried on, her sheepskin boots slipping from time to time on the rotting leaves, remnants of a distant autumn. She couldn’t
see the castle yet because it was hidden behind a sharp bend in the road but she knew it wasn’t far. And he would be there,
waiting.
Somewhere behind her she heard a shuffling and a sharp crack of twigs, like a pistol shot in the mist. She resisted the temptation
to look round and quickened her pace, trying to convince herself that it was some animal in the woodland. But when she heard
the sound again she recognised it as stealthy, predatory footsteps creeping through the rotten leaves beneath the trees.
Analise tried to break into a run but, like in some nightmare, her feet wouldn’t obey her brain. Whatever it was was getting
closer and she could almost hear it breathing. Closer. Then her mobile phone rang and as she slowed down to fumble for it
in her bag, she felt something being slipped around her neck from behind.
She reached up in a desperate attempt to scratch her assailant’s face. But her bare hands met not with live flesh but with
something cold and hard.
And that was the last thing she touched on this earth before the thin cord tightened around her neck and the spirit left her
limp, lifeless body.
John Varley had no time for his father’s interest in Egyptology. I once overheard him saying that if Sir Frederick were to
die, he would make a bonfire of his whole collection and rejoice at the sight of those desiccated mummies going up in flames.
The very thought struck me with horror. How could a son be so insensitive to his own father’s passions?
I had been told that when John had completed his education at Rugby School Sir Frederick had sent him up to Varley’s Pickle
Factory near Bristol where he was to learn the business his grandfather had founded with a view to taking over on Sir Frederick’s
retirement. As an orphan who had had to make her own way in the world I considered John to be a young man in possession of
many of life’s privileges, even though he himself seemed quite unaware of his good fortune. I had met several such spoiled
young men from wealthy families before in Oxford: having nothing to fight for in this life can make us weak and soft.
The accident John had suffered as a child had been a fall from a tree in the woods beside the castle. He had broken his right
leg very badly and, as a consequence, it had been left deformed and twisted. Because of
this misfortune he limped badly and he was very sensitive about his disability. He had a strong hatred of being looked at
and one day when I was outside with the children, he must have fancied that I was watching him. When he turned to address
me his demeanour was most unpleasant, and his words quite unsuitable for use in the presence of young children. Naturally
I remonstrated with him but he told me that a pauper like myself living on the charity of his family had no right to an opinion.
I was shocked by the viciousness of his speech but I had no desire to show my feelings in front of my charges. I hurried them
away and led them to the room where Sir Frederick kept his collection. Edward, of course, was delighted at this diversion
from his lessons, as was Victoria. But for myself, the visit to the little museum of antiquities allowed me to recover from
the shock of John’s verbal assault.
It was when we left the museum to return to the schoolroom that I encountered Sir Frederick. When the children were out of
earshot he enquired whether anything was amiss and I had to tell him the truth. We should always tell the truth, whatever
the consequences.