‘I’ve told you that already. I found them in the local library. But anybody can get hold of that information. It’s in the
public domain.’
‘I’ll need the name of the person you saw in Morbay on Tuesday night. And I’d like you to come down to Tradmouth police station
tomorrow to make a statement.’ He gave the man an expectant smile then he turned his head away and watched Caroline as she
devoured every word of the newspaper cuttings.
Delaware looked irritated. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Just ask for me at the Reception desk when you arrive.’ He handed Delaware his notebook and a pen. ‘Now if you could write
down the name and address of the person you were with on Tuesday …’ Delaware hesitated for a second then he wrote down
a name – B Cooper – and a Morbay address.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Wesley as he put the notebook back in his pocket. ‘See you tomorrow then.’ He gathered up the cuttings
and returned them to the file. Gerry would be anxious to see them. Then he said goodbye to Caroline but she looked rather
stunned and made no attempt to move.
‘You reckon it’s him … Delaware? Is he the Tradmouth Ripper?’ Neil said as they walked to the front door.
Wesley gave a snort of derision. ‘The Tradmouth Ripper?’
‘Well, once this gets out, the tabloids will want to call him something catchy. You know what they’re like.’
Wesley nodded. He knew what the press were like all
right. ‘I’d better get back. I think Caroline Varley’s had a bit of a shock. Keep an eye on her, won’t you?’ he said. ‘And
thanks. This could be the breakthrough we need. I’ll be in touch.’
‘There were four of them,’ Neil said to his friend’s disappearing back. ‘If he’s copying John Varley he won’t have finished
yet.’
Wesley said nothing as he got into his car. The last thing he wanted to think about was the possibility of more deaths.
Geoff Dudgeon stepped out of the police station after being interviewed by Ian Petrie and Paul Johnson, a free man for the
time being. As Wesley’s mind was filled with the dark deeds of John Varley he almost walked past the artist in Reception without
realising it, but Dudgeon mumbled a resentful greeting and brought Wesley’s thoughts back to the present day.
‘Mr Dudgeon. Interview over?’
Dudgeon stopped and turned to face him. He looked mildly indignant; an innocent man, wrongly accused. ‘I hope that’s the end
of it. They’ve checked with the phone company and my wife and I’m in the clear.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. But you were involved with the victim so we might need to speak to you again. I’m sorry but that’s
the way it is,’ he added, as though he meant it.
Dudgeon grunted something Wesley couldn’t quite make out and hurried away, glad to get out of the place.
When Wesley reached the incident room he found Ian Petrie deep in conversation with Paul. Ian was sitting at Wesley’s own
desk, making himself at home. When he saw Wesley he stood up.
‘I’ve just seen Geoff Dudgeon,’ Wesley said to Paul as he
took off his coat. ‘He says his story about the calls to Analise’s mobile has been checked out.’
‘His phone company confirms that he tried to call her number several times between nine and eleven thirty on the night she
died from a location in the centre of Neston,’ said Paul. ‘Looks like he was telling the truth.’
‘Or he knew that we could trace mobile signals and got somebody else to make the calls for him to give himself an elaborate
alibi … his wife maybe. But it’s a case of proving it,’ said Wesley, perching on the edge of his desk.
‘You’re right, Wesley. We only have her word for it that he was at home mopping her fevered brow and wives have been known
to cover up for their husbands,’ Ian said. ‘He could still have been up to something … not necessarily murder, but something.’
‘Like what?’
‘He denies all knowledge of anyone called Ra but he could be lying. Of all the artists we’ve tracked down in the Neston area,
he’s the only one who makes the sort of pottery that could be used to hide antiquities.’
Wesley said nothing. Paul went on to recount how Dudgeon had been more than willing to talk about his relationship with Analise
Sonquist once his formidable wife was no longer there to overhear. When asked about the Egyptian figures he said he’d seen
on sale at some craft fair in Tradmouth, his answers had been annoyingly vague. But that was something they could check out.
‘So he didn’t say anything likely to move your enquiry forward, Ian?’ Wesley asked.
Ian shook his head. ‘When I asked him about Egyptian antiquities he said South Devon was his horizon and Egypt didn’t figure
in his life.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘I don’t know. It might be worth checking whether he owns or rents other premises around here – a workshop for the antiquity
scam.’
‘He said he’d been to London. What was he doing there?’
‘He claims he was visiting an art dealer – someone who might sell his work for a commission. I’ve asked Paul here to check
it out.’ Ian smiled and put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘This lad’ll go far. I’d watch your back if I were you.’
Wesley could see Gerry Heffernan in his office, talking animatedly on the phone. He slid off the desk. ‘Sorry, Ian. There’s
something important I’ve got to tell the boss.’
He hurried to Gerry’s office and pushed the door open. He had the cardboard file containing copies of Neil’s newspaper cuttings
tucked underneath his arm and when Gerry hung up he placed it carefully on top of the files cluttering the desk.
‘I’ve got all the details. The eldest son of Varley Castle’s owner killed four women in 1903, strangled and mutilated them
and left them dotted around the countryside. He hanged himself and the killings stopped.’
‘Saved the hangman a job then.’
‘Looks like it.’
Gerry reached out and took the papers from Wesley’s folder and began to read. When he’d finished he looked up. ‘They’re identical.’
‘The library told Neil that the only other person who’s been taking an interest in this particular case is Frederick Varley’s
biographer, Robert Delaware. I met him at the castle.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘His eyes were too close together,’ said Wesley with a grin. ‘And I definitely think he was hiding something.’
‘When did he visit the library?’
‘Shortly before the attack on Clare Mayers.’
‘First abortive attempt?’
‘Possibly. He claims he was at his flat in Tradmouth on Sunday night. No witnesses.’
‘What about Analise’s murder?’
‘He says he was in Morbay on Tuesday evening visiting a fellow history enthusiast – someone who owns some papers concerning
Sir Frederick Varley. I’ve told him to report here for questioning tomorrow but I’ll get his alibi for Tuesday checked out
first. Then we’ll have to ask the newspaper offices and other nearby libraries if anybody else has been taking an interest
in those articles.’
Gerry buried his face in his hands. He looked tired. Wesley noticed that his shirt was crumpled. When Wesley had first arrived
in Tradmouth the DCI had always looked as though he’d slept in his clothes. Then the helpless widower had met Joyce Barnes
and recently, under her influence, he had gradually become positively dapper. However, a fortnight without Joyce had made
him revert to his former slovenly ways.
‘I’m worried,’ Wesley said.
Gerry looked up. ‘Worried?’
‘I think we should put out a warning – tell women to be on their guard.’
Gerry looked at his watch. ‘It’s too late for tonight’s news but we’ll think about a warning tomorrow. And we need to tell
Guy Kitchener about the Varley murders and the similarities.’
‘Yes, I’ll see to it.’
‘I just hope he comes up with some results soon.’
‘Let’s wait and see, eh?’
Wesley returned to his paperwork, suspecting that it was going to be a long evening.
Pam Peterson let herself into the house, flicked on the hall light and swore softly under her breath. Della was supposed to
have picked the children up from school and brought them home for their dinner. But Della had never been one of those reliable
sorts of mother that her friends seemed to have. Wesley’s mother was that type but unfortunately she was miles away in London.
When Della started volunteering at the animal sanctuary, Pam had harboured a fleeting hope that her new interest would make
her act her age at last and become the perfect grandmother. Up till now she had always been in the habit of appearing in the
children’s lives spasmodically, distributing unsuitable presents and causing mayhem. Michael and Amelia seemed to accept her
as a force of nature, as children often do, not asking questions and not judging her actions or intentions. But Pam herself
wasn’t inclined to be that tolerant.
Her first thought as she entered the living room and switched on the light was that the place looked a mess. It was clear
Della had been back. She’d created chaos and then she had gone on her merry way, taking the children with her, getting them
over-excited and keeping them from their homework. Pam had been teaching all day and, with this new murder investigation, Wesley
wouldn’t be back till late. It was Della’s thoughtlessness that made her angry.
She was about to return to the car to fetch the plastic box containing all her marking and paperwork when she spotted a scrap
of folded paper with her name printed boldly in felt
tip sitting on the coffee table on top of a pile of books. She picked it up and read it.
‘Gone to sanctuary. Meet us there at six. Rose Croft, Hugford. Love and kisses, Della.’
Suddenly she heard a plaintive mewing from the kitchen. The Kitten. She gave a weary sigh and opened the door, sweeping the
little creature up in her hand as it tried to make its escape, swearing that next time she’d make the children feed it and
clear out its litter tray … or better still, she’d make Della do it. However, it was impossible to resist the kitten’s
charms for long and she found herself giving the little creature a cuddle before closing the kitchen door gently behind her.
After she’d brought her box of school work in from the car and dumped it on the dining room table she locked up the house
and drove towards Hugford through a thin veil of drizzle. The sanctuary was only a couple of miles away along the main road
to Neston then left down the country lane where Clare Mayers had met her attacker, and as there were only a handful of houses
in Hugford, Rose Croft was easy to find. She parked on the wide verge opposite a large gate bearing the words ‘Rose Croft
Animal Sanctuary. Please ring bell’ and as she crossed the road she could hear her children’s excited voices and the barking
of what sounded like a pack of dogs.
She pressed the bell and waited.
Wesley looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. He stared at the telephone and willed it to ring.
Paperwork was piling up on his desk but he wasn’t in the mood to face it. He took his mobile from his pocket and turned it
over and over in his fingers. He had just called home
but there’d been no reply so now he selected Pam’s mobile number and he was rather relieved when she answered after the third
ring.
‘Hi,’ he said when he heard her voice. ‘Where are you?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
He looked round. The incident room was still full, everybody bent over desks and computers or holding hushed phone conversations.
Checking alibis, checking sightings. Waiting for the snippet of information that might turn everything around. ‘Having a wonderful
time at Uncle Gerry’s holiday camp.’
‘Caught your murderer yet?’
‘We’re working on it. I thought you’d be home?’
‘Della spirited the kids off to the animal sanctuary. I’m there now trying to prise them away.’ She lowered her voice as though
she didn’t want to be overheard. ‘Mary’s quite a character. She set up the sanctuary ten years ago and she runs it as a charity.
I never knew the place existed.’
‘Is that Guy Kitchener’s mother?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve just been on the phone to Guy. He’s helping with this case. Is the sanctuary just for cats and dogs?’ Somehow he didn’t
feel like discussing work just at that moment.
‘Cats, dogs, donkeys, hedgehogs – anything you can name. The kids are having the time of their lives. I don’t know how I’m
going to get them out of here. Look, I’d better go.’
He was about to end the call when he heard Pam’s voice again. ‘Hang on, I knew there was something I had to tell you. You
know Neil’s working up at Varley Castle? Well, there’s a lovely painting of the castle above Mary’s fire-place – I asked her
about it and she says she’s distantly related to the family.’
‘The Varleys?’
‘I presume so. She said she was only a third cousin or something and she’s never had any contact with them. I told her that
Neil’s up there at the moment. Coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I’d like to see this sanctuary one of these days.’
‘Why? You’re not planning to interrogate Mary are you?’
She could always see right through him, he thought as the phone on his desk started to ring. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘How much later?’
‘Sorry, love. Not sure.’
He said goodbye, put down his mobile and picked up the receiver.
The news was good. One of Alan Jakes’s mates had let slip that he was at his sister’s address in Dukesbridge. The house was
being watched and it was only a matter of time before he was brought in for questioning.
It was a question of sitting tight and waiting.
One summer evening I arranged to meet Frederick in the woods by the ruins of the old manor house. We thought it wise to conduct
our meetings in private away from the prying eyes of the servants who, I am sure, would have loved nothing better than to
gossip about their master and the governess who thought she was so far above them but was really no better than she ought
to be. I sensed that they had little liking for me for I was neither one of their number or a lady who would warrant the respect
due to her class.
I was on my way to the ruins, my heart filled with eager anticipation, when I encountered John. He was standing in my path,
barring the way, his visage set in a contemptuous snarl and his eyes so full of hatred that I was suddenly afraid. He grabbed
my wrist, put his face close to mine so that I could smell the strong liquor on his warm breath. He told me to stay away from
his father. Then he held me close and when I felt him hard against me I knew that he was aroused to lust. He caught hold of
me and began to drag me through the trees, muttering names that I recall now with a blush. I was a whore, a Jezebel, a harlot,
and I used my
body to entrap unwary men. He would teach me, he said, that harlots did not prosper. When we came to a clearing he threw
me upon the damp earth and tore at my clothing like a wild beast. I screamed and pushed away his pawing, exploring hands and
when he stopped my cries with a violent, painful kiss I kicked and wriggled beneath his weight. I would not be violated by
this wretch without a fight and yet I feared his strength would overwhelm me.
When I heard Frederick’s voice, shocked and angry, I gave thanks to the great goddess Isis that my beloved had come to my
aid. Brought to his senses by his father’s arrival, John released me from his grasp, struggled to his feet and sprang away
in an attempt to put some distance between us.
‘She wanted me,’ he shouted to his father, pointing his finger at me accusingly. ‘She said she wanted a man who had the energy
of youth. She told me she’s had her fill of old men.’
I knelt upon the damp earth and put my hand out to Frederick but he stood as though frozen, staring down at me with cold distaste
in his eyes. And I felt so alone.