Analise’s sister had turned up on her doorstep earlier and, for once, Suzie had been lost for words. She had mumbled platitudes
and the girl had cried while Suzie had watched her, a little ashamed that she could feel nothing but irritation. Clive had
called her a selfish, unfeeling bitch. It had been the first time he’d ever talked to her like that. Since Analise’s death
he seemed different somehow. Everything seemed different.
The police hadn’t bothered them for the past couple of days, not since the second body had been found. At least
Clive had a cast-iron alibi for that one, she thought. He’d been with her all night, sulking and moody like a child whose
mother wouldn’t allow it out to play. But he’d been there all right. They both had. Until they could get themselves a new
au pair, their social wings were clipped.
She paused in the doorwayof the church hall, watching her fellow actors and backstage helpers rushing here and there, some
panicking, some purposeful. But she knew that an element of chaos was as inevitable as the seasons. Costumes and props were
bound to have gone missing since November and lines were sure to have been forgotten. She made for the side room where the
costumes were kept and when she reached her destination she found the tweed suit, sensible shoes and grey curly wig that would
transform her into another woman for the duration of the performance – into Mrs Murchison, the wife of a laird who expects
to land the role of Cleopatra, only to be disappointed. It was hardly a glamorous part. But Suzie had never really been the
glamorous type.
As she began to check that her costume was complete, she heard a raised female voice, high-pitched and slightly lisping. ‘It
isn’t here.’
Suzie looked round. Agnes White, the woman in charge of wardrobe, was making a frantic search of a large cupboard.
‘What have you lost?’ she asked.
‘The mask Fiona wears at the end of the second act – when all the Egyptian gods and goddesses parade in front of Cleopatra
and Mark Antony.’
‘Which one is it? The hawk?’
‘No. The jackal. Remember? Raymond copied it from that statue you brought back from your Nile cruise. You know Raymond – he’s
my daughter’s art teacher at Neston Grammar.’
Suzie froze. ‘You’re sure it’s missing?’
‘Absolutely sure. But it’s not the end of the world. The others are here so nobody’ll notice if we’re one god short, will
they? The trouble is, it’s Fiona’s only part so we’ll have to think of something else to give her. A handmaiden perhaps. What
do you think?’
Suzie didn’t answer. Her mind was racing. According to the papers there was some bizarre Egyptian connection to Analise’s
death. And the police had shown an interest in Clive’s Anubis statue.
The police really should be told about the missing mask. She dreaded facing all those questions again – and Clive had been
so edgy since Analise was found – but she knew it had to be done. Perhaps it would be best if Agnes did it, she thought.
Murder was so unpleasant.
When they reached the interview room Guy Kitchener slipped next door to watch unobserved behind the two-way mirror.
Robert Delaware looked nervous, frightened even. He was drinking a cup of coffee from the machine. Some, including Wesley,
would have called that a cruel start to the interrogation.
The duty solicitor sat by the suspect’s side, fidgeting with a pen. He looked almost as uncomfortable as his new client.
Gerry came straight to the point. ‘Your alibi’s gone AWOL, Mr Delaware. Raymond Seed’s not been at work … and he hasn’t
got a wife.’ He looked at the suspect expectantly. Get out of that one.
Delaware bowed his head. ‘I’ve been trying to ring him but there’s been no answer. I didn’t know he was away.’
‘He’s let you down,’ said Wesley gently.
‘Seems like it.’ He rubbed his eyes, leaving the delicate skin surrounding them red and puffy. He looked weary. If he was
going to talk, it might be now.
‘You lied to us.’
Delaware began to play with the empty cup in front of him, his nervous fingers turning it round and round.
After a while he spoke again, as though he had an urge to fill the expectant silence. ‘I haven’t done anything. I didn’t kill
those women. Why should I?’
‘You tell us, Robert.’ Before he entered the room Wesley had been handed a brown paper evidence bag containing the sketchbook
from the castle. He picked it up from where he’d been concealing it down by the side of the chair and lifted it onto the table.
He unwrapped it, opened it and pushed it towards Delaware who sat, frozen.
‘For the benefit of the tape I’m showing Mr Delaware a sketchbook containing drawings of murder victims from 1903. Have you
seen it before, Mr Delaware?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘It was found in your room at Varley Castle. How did it come to be there?’
‘It was amongst the Varley family papers in the muniment room. I took it up to my study because I’m working on a chapter about
the death of Sir Frederick Varley’s son, John. He killed these women then he hanged himself in the woods near the castle.
This was part of my research.’
Gerry Heffernan leaned forward. ‘And you expect us to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Have you ever been in a pub called the Angel in Trad mouth?’
Delaware looked wary.‘I might have been. I can’t remember.’
‘You don’t seem too sure.’
‘Can I go now? I’ve told you everything I know.’
‘Where were you on Thursday evening?’
‘I was travelling back to Varley Castle. I was here in the afternoon. Remember?’
‘You could easily have met Isobel Grant afterwards.’
‘I don’t know anybody called Isobel Grant.’
‘You didn’t get back to Varley Castle till almost midnight. Why was that?’
Delaware glanced at his solicitor, a pleading look in his eyes.
The solicitor cleared his throat. ‘I think my client’s told you everything he knows, Chief Inspector. The evidence against
him is all circumstantial so—’
‘You’ve got a flat in Tradmouth, I believe. I’d like to organise a search.’
Delaware looked uneasy. ‘OK. But is it really necessary?’
‘If you’ve got nothing to hide you’ve got nothing to fear,’ Gerry replied with a smile that would grace a crocodile.
Delaware shot another glance at his solicitor who turned his head away.
‘Where were you last Sunday night?’
Delaware looked confused. ‘I was at Varley Castle. Yes, I’m sure I was.’
‘Can anybody vouch for that?’
He hesitated. ‘Caroline was out. Somebody from the village invited her round for dinner.’
‘Are you going to release my client?’ the solicitor said. He sounded a little bored, but then it was a question he’d asked
many times before over the course of his career.
‘Not at the moment,’ said Gerry. He stood up, his chair scraping on the linoleum floor.
As the uniformed constable sitting by the door escorted Delaware back to the cells, the solicitor looked at his watch meaningfully.
They didn’t have long to make the decision; either charge Delaware or let him go. It was just a matter of getting the necessary
evidence.
They met up with Guy Kitchener in the corridor.
‘What did you think?’ Wesley asked.
‘He was nervous. And evasive.’
‘And he fits the profile you gave us,’ said Gerry.
‘Yes. He’s arrogant too. He’s confident he can get away with it.’
‘John Varley didn’t get away with it back in 1903,’ observed Wesley, unable to get Varley out of his mind.
‘But Delaware thinks he can succeed where Varley failed. That’s what I mean about arrogance.’
‘If he is guilty what’s his motive?’ Wesley asked.
‘Power,’ Guy said with confidence. ‘It makes him important and gives him a kind of immortality. Think of all the books that
are published about serial killers.’ Guy looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to get back to the university for a meeting. Sorry.
Call me if anything new comes up, won’t you?’
‘I never reckoned much to profilers and psychologists before but he talks some sense,’ Gerry said as soon as Guy was out of
earshot.
‘Do you think Delaware’s our man?’
Gerry considered the question for a moment. ‘I think we can rule Dudgeon out and all this Varley stuff is too subtle for Jakes.
But Delaware fits our bill perfectly.’
Wesley knew Gerry was right. But he still felt uncomfortable.
As they arrived back at Gerry’s office Paul Johnson came rushing up to them. He had news.
‘I’ve spoken to the person who took the bookings for the craft fair at the church hall in January. Remember, Geoffrey Dudgeon
thought he’d seen someone selling those Egyptian figures there? Well, one of the stalls was hired by a Raymond Seed. Wasn’t
that the man Robert Delaware said he was with when …?’
‘Yes. It’s about time we found our Mr Seed,’ said Gerry. ‘Anything else?’
‘I’ve been trying to trace this Adrian Isobel Grant told her friend she met. According to records, the only Adrian who lives
up near the golf club is sixty-seven years old and there are no Ferraris registered locally to anybody called Adrian. And
he lied about owning the
Lazy Fox
. I’m beginning to think that Adrian doesn’t exist.’
Frederick had not visited my bed for many weeks; not since John had uttered his poisonous words. This lack of intimate contact
denied me a suitable opportunity to reveal my dilemma to him. I had no wish to be overheard by servants or to arouse the suspicions
of those below stairs so I kept silent, nursing my secret.
My waist was beginning to thicken and I knew that my hidden shame would soon be evident to the world and the gossips who dwelt
in the attic rooms and looked down their noses at me – a lady who has been forced by poverty into sharing their servitude
– would revile me as the worst kind of sinner: a magdalen; a fallen woman. How ever, I hoped and prayed that when all was
revealed Sir Frederick would share the responsibility for my fall from grace and offer me his protection – even, I dared hope,
the honour of marriage.
One evening when I was taking dinner with Sir Frederick, a new maidservant upset a glass and hurried out to fetch a cloth
to wipe up the spill. All the servants being absent from the room, we were at last alone and I could contain myself no longer.
I rose and went to the head of the
table where Frederick sat and I knelt beside him. He begged me to rise before the maidservant returned but I stayed there,
resolving not to move until I had said my piece.
‘My dearest, I am with child,’ I said. ‘And you are my child’s father.’
It was at that moment, when I saw the horror and distaste on his face, that I knew that all the affection he had claimed to
have for me had been false. He had used me for his pleasure like some servant girl of no importance. And now I would be alone
in the world facing censure and disgrace.
As soon as Wesley returned to the incident room Gerry called him over.
‘A Mrs Agnes White has just called in. She’s acting as wardrobe mistress for the Castle Players. They performed a play called
I Remember Cleopatra
back in November and now they’re entering it for the Tradmouth Drama Festival. They put all the costumes away in a cupboard
at the church hall before Christmas and when they came to get them out again, they found that a mask had gone missing.’ Gerry
paused for dramatic effect but Wesley guessed what was coming. ‘It’s a jackal mask. Anubis. And there’s another interesting
connection: Mrs White mentioned that her daughter was interviewed about the attack on Clare Mayers. Mrs White is Peony White’s
mother.’
‘Small world,’ said Wesley. ‘Who’s had access to this mask?’
‘The church hall’s always in use so anyone can walk in.
And there’s something else. The mask was made by Peony’s art teacher … one Raymond Seed.’
Wesley said nothing for a few seconds then he looked up. ‘Delaware’s elusive alibi.’
‘Morbay keep trying Seed’s address but he’s not there. He rang into school on Tuesday morning then he vanished.’
‘It’s time we made a thorough search of Delaware’s Tradmouth flat: it’s above a shop in Ford Street. There might be some clue
there to Seed’s whereabouts.’
Gerry nodded. ‘Better see to it right away.’ He hesitated. ‘Is it Delaware, Wes … maybe with this Seed as his accomplice?
We’re not leaping to conclusions?’
‘He’s been taking an unhealthy interest in the John Varley murders; he’s got no alibis for the attack on Clare Mayers or the
two murders; and he fits Guy Kitchener’s profile. He’s in custody now but the clock’s ticking away so if we don’t find some
solid evidence soon, we’ll have to release him. And if he’s free, he might kill again.’
As Wesley turned to leave the office, Gerry’s phone rang. After a short conversation he summoned Wesley back with an urgent
shout.
Robert Delaware had just collapsed in his cell.
Dave Bartle, landlord of the Angel, prided himself on remember ing his regulars. But the same couldn’t be said for occasional
patrons who popped in once in a blue moon for a pub meal.
A taciturn plain-clothes policeman had called that morning to help him create an e-fit of the man he’d seen with the murdered
woman. But the truth was that he’d taken little notice of the man, although he’d had a nagging feeling that he’d seen him
before.
But Dave didn’t have time to think of that now. It was one o’clock on a Saturday and there was a long queue at the bar.
‘Yes, sir, what’ll it be?’ he said automatically to the next customer in the queue.
‘Pint of bitter and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.’
Dave looked up at the man for the first time and his heart missed a beat. It was definitely him. Only this time he wore a
stained sweatshirt instead of an expensive shirt and leather coat. There was a smear of oil on his hand too, as though he’d
been working on an engine.
‘That’ll be three pounds forty-eight, if you please,’ Dave said with an effort at bonhomie. He didn’t want to scare the man
off.
‘Take over, will you?’ he whispered to Barry the barman who was serving by his side. ‘I’ve got to make a phone call.’
He took the policeman’s card out of his pocket and picked up the phone behind the bar.
Wesley stood in the tiny living room of Delaware’s flat, glad for time to think away from the hectic bustle of the incident
room.
Delaware had been taken off to Neston Hospital as there were no available beds at Tradmouth. According to the doctors, his
life was in no danger and no explanation had been forthcoming for the dramatic medical emergency. Wesley suspected an element
of play-acting … but perhaps his years in the police had given him a jaded view of human nature.
As he’d arrived at the flat he’d received a call from an excited Gerry Heffernan. The landlord of the Angel had spotted the
man who’d been with Isobel Grant. Paul Johnson had rushed off to investigate but no doubt the man would have vanished by the
time he got there – or alternatively he’d
turn out to be some innocent bystander who happened to bear a passing resemblance to the man they were looking for. Wesley
wasn’t getting his hopes up.
He began the search. He had always believed that you could tell a lot about a person from the state of the place they lived
in but he wasn’t quite sure what to make of Robert Delaware’s domestic habits. The bedroom, just large enough for a double
bed and a wardrobe, was neat but in the living room objects spilled from cupboards and the floor was littered with papers,
as though he – or somebody else – had been making a frantic search for something and hadn’t had the time or the inclination
to return everything to its proper place.
Chaos made Wesley uncomfortable so he began to pick up the papers and arrange them in neat piles on the coffee table. He came
across printouts of e-mails: one from Delaware’s publishers rejecting a proposal he’d made for a book on local history, and
another asking when the first draft of his biography of Sir Frederick Varley would be ready. There was also a letter from
his bank asking him to come in and discuss his overdraft situation. As Wesley continued his search he found a small pile of
adult magazines hidden beneath a pile of bills in the corner and he flicked through them absent-mindedly, reminded of Guy Kitchener’s
words – the killer could be afraid of women. And here was Delaware using glossy images as a substitute for real relationships.
Somehow it seemed to fit. There was no sign of any equivalent gay magazines, rather confirming that the relationship Delaware
had claimed to have with Raymond Seed was a lie … as Wesley had suspected all along.
The built-in cupboard by the fireplace was packed with books on Egypt and printouts about early twentieth-century
expeditions and discoveries. The man had certainly done his homework before embarking on his biography of Sir Frederick Varley.
He was about to close the cupboard when a book title caught his eye, written in large red letters on the spine of a dull brown
volume:
The Art of Mummification
. Wesley took the book out and when he leafed through it he noticed that a page corner had been turned down. He opened the
page in question and saw an illustration that reminded him of one of Colin Bowman’s autopsies. His hands began to shake a
little as he stared at the full-page outline of a body with broken lines indicating where the embalmers of the dead had extracted
the internal organs. Whoever had killed Analise Sonquist and Isobel Grant had been in possession of this information. If things
were looking bad for Robert Delaware before, this final piece of evidence seemed bound to condemn him.
He dropped the book into an evidence bag and left the cold, shabby flat, locking the door carefully behind him.
There had been a mystery key found amongst Robert Delaware’s possessions that hadn’t fitted his Ford Street premises. Gerry
had contemplated this puzzle for a while before telling Trish Walton to take it with her when she and DC Darren Norris visited
Raymond Seed’s address in an upmarket part of Morbay. They had obtained a search warrant and, if Seed wasn’t in, they had
orders to gain entry. But Trish thought she’d try her luck with the key before taking any more drastic measures.
There was no sign of life when Trish and Darren arrived and as soon as Trish tried the key in the lock she found that it fitted
perfectly.
Seed’s flat occupied the entire ground floor of a large Edwardian house. It was spacious with a tasteful blend of modern and
antique furnishings and rich Turkish rugs on the polished oak floorboards. Quite luxurious, Trish thought, for a part-time
art teacher. But there was nothing there to link Seed with Robert Delaware, not even an entry in the address book by the phone.
There wasn’t even any sign of Seed’s own artistic efforts which Trish thought rather unusual.
When she spotted an insignificant-looking door in the far corner of the slick, modern kitchen she decided to investigate.
The door was locked but she noticed a small key cupboard hanging on the wall above the worktop and she tried the keys in the
lock one by one, eventually striking lucky. She pushed the door open and stared down into the dark abyss below for a few seconds
before summoning Darren from the living room for support.
She reached out her hand, fumbling for the light switch and when the large, well-appointed cellar was bathed in light she
could see tables laden with paints and clays. Against one white-painted brick wall stood a pile of wooden crates and on another
wall there were rows of shelves filled with colourful statues, masks and figurines. All Egyptian.
Trish crept down the cellar steps, glad that Darren was behind her. When she reached the bottom she realised that the place
was some sort of workshop and the crates stacked up by the far wall bore writing that she guessed was Arabic or something
similar.
But it was a shelf filled with small figurines that made her catch her breath. Anubis after Anubis, all similar to the one
found on the body of Analise Sonquist. And beneath them was a row of identical masks: the heads of a jackal, painted in black
and shades of blue.
She took out her phone but as there was no signal down there, she asked Darren to go upstairs and put in a call to Gerry Heffernan.
Once alone, she stood there looking around. The Egyptian objects gave her the creeps, watching her with their dark, painted
eyes. Then suddenly she heard raised voices coming from the kitchen upstairs.
When she darted back up the steps she saw Darren standing in front of the cellar door, facing a man who looked more worried
than angry.
‘Raymond Seed, I presume?’
The man nodded warily.
‘We’d like a word with you concerning the murders of Analise Sonquist and Isobel Grant.’
When the man sat down heavily on a stool and put his head in his hands, Trish thought he looked a little relieved. But it
was probably her imagination.
Luckily the man who’d been with Isobel Grant on the night she disappeared had still been in the Angel when Paul Johnson arrived.
Paul recognised the man as soon as he walked in but he didn’t want to leap to conclusions until the landlord had given him
the nod. Once he did, however, Paul approached Alan Jakes, who was sipping his pint and staring appreciatively at a couple
of young women in the corner, and asked quietly if he could have a word. Fifteen minutes later Jakes was sitting in interview
room one nursing a plastic cup filled with a hot brown liquid that claimed to be tea. Biscuits hadn’t been offered.
Gerry Heffernan stood outside in the corridor with Paul, squinting through the peephole in the door. Jakes looked annoyed
but largely unfazed by his situation which, in Gerry’s opinion, marked him as a guilty man.
Gerry had summoned Guy Kitchener from Morbay University and now he stood aside so that the psychologist could watch the man
himself. ‘Well? What do you think?’
Guy turned to face him. ‘So this is the man who’s been having an affair with Clare Mayers? He looks confident.’
‘And that means?’
Guy took another peep. ‘Most people would look worried even if they were innocent.’
‘My thoughts exactly. We’d better get on with it.’
As soon as Guy had disappeared through the neighbouring door to watch the interview through the two-way mirror, Gerry flung
the door open wide and let Paul Johnson take his seat first while he stood for a few moments, towering over his suspect.
‘They’ve given you a cup of tea then?’ he said as he sat down.
Jakes nodded.
‘Sorry about that. We’ve had complaints to the European Court of Human Rights about the tea from that machine,’ he said with
an attempt at levity.
Alan Jakes didn’t smile. ‘Why am I here? I was having a quiet pint and I was dragged here against my will. I could sue.’ He
glared at Paul.
‘Own a yacht do you, Alan?’
Jakes snorted. ‘Do I look as though I can afford a yacht? Look, why am I here? Has that Clare been saying things? If she has,
she’s a lying cow.’
Gerry ignored his protestations and slid a photograph of Isobel Grant across the table. ‘Do you know this woman?’
Jakes picked it up, glanced at it swiftly then put it down again as if it was red hot. His lips tilted upwards in a cocky
half-smile but Gerry could see that his hands were shaking.
‘Why?’
‘She was murdered on Thursday night and dumped in the back yard of a house in Tradmouth, that’s why.’
For a second Jakes looked alarmed. ‘Look, that’s got nothing to do with me.’
From what Gerry Heffernan could see his shock was genuine. Or maybe he was just a good actor.
‘Did you see Isobel Grant on Thursday night? I should tell you that you’ve been identified as the man she was with.’
Jakes looked unsure of himself. Then he came to a decision. ‘Yeah I saw her but I didn’t hurt her. I never did nothing.’
‘You used the name Adrian. Why was that?’
Jakes sat silently for a few moments. Eventually he leaned towards Gerry confidentially. ‘I thought it’d be a laugh if I became
a posh bloke with a Ferrari and a yacht. I’d been working on this boat, the
Lazy Fox
, so I had the keys.’
‘I thought you worked in a garage?’
‘Yeah, but I do some boat maintenance too. I’ve got a mate who works at Peters and I help him out sometimes.’
‘Really,’ said Gerry, trying to sound casual. ‘I’ve thought about trying Peters for my boat but they’ve got a reputation for
being a bit on the expensive side.’
‘You get what you pay for.’ Jakes smirked and looked Gerry up and down. ‘They do tend to deal with the upper end of the market.’
‘All the gin palaces, eh.’
‘Something like that.’
‘So you said you owned a yacht. What other cock-and-bull stories did you tell her?’
‘I said I had a big house near the golf club and said my Ferrari was in the garage for repairs.’ He looked Gerry in the
eye. ‘There are times when I just fancy being someone else. No harm in it.’