Whatever happened, they had to prevent another tragedy.
Neil ended the phone call and stood there for a few moments.
‘You OK, Neil?’
He turned and saw that Andrew Beredace had looked up from the papyrus he’d been reading.
‘Robert Delaware’s out of hospital. He’s coming back here and Wes has asked me to let him know when he turns up.’
‘Why?’
‘It looks like he’s a suspect in these murders.’ He put his hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, shit. Wes told me not to say anything.’
‘Well, I’m not going to pass it on,’ said Andrew, returning to his papyrus.
But Neil wasn’t listening. ‘I think he’ll try and convince Caroline of his innocence hoping she’ll take pity on him and smuggle
him out of here like some escaped prisoner of war in the movies.’
‘I don’t think Caroline’s that stupid.’
‘People do strange things.’ He paused. ‘And there’s the sheets.’
‘Sheets?’
‘The bodies were wrapped in linen sheets. A policeman came round asking Caroline questions about them. She said she didn’t
know exactly what was in the place but the sheets had the same laundry marks as some of the table linen she found in the still
room so they might have come from here.’
Andrew focused his eyes on the papyrus again, as though he didn’t want to hear. ‘This papyrus tells a really interesting story.’
Neil knew when somebody was trying to change the subject but he really didn’t mind. ‘Does it?’
‘It came from the tomb of a court musician in Thebes. It’s absolutely fascinating.’
Neil saw a slight smile on Andrew’s face: the smile of the keen enthusiast – or maybe the obsessive. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’
Andrew took a deep breath. ‘It’s what’s called an execration text … a sort of curse left by her enemies. This one explains
what she was supposed to have done. This musician, right … she’s a beautiful young woman and she has a baby by one of
the court officials – a very important man. Anyway, when she has this baby the father denies it’s his but he says he’ll take
it into his household anyway but when it’s taken off her it disappears and she accuses the father of
killing it. She hangs around and works out a way to get her revenge. She stabs the father and his wife. Then she moves on
to the rest of his family because death had become a pleasure to her.’ He began to read. ‘“The carving of their flesh and
the spilling of their life blood was sweet as honey.” What do you make of that?’ He paused for a second. ‘Do you think someone
can actually enjoy the act of murder … take pleasure in it like food or sex?’
Neil frowned. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’
But a voice interrupted before Andrew could answer. ‘I’ve just had a call from the police.’
Both men turned round: Caroline was standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the jamb. She looked nervous. Maybe even
frightened.
‘Was it about Robert? My friend from Tradmouth CID’s just called to tell me that he’s out of hospital.’
‘Why should he tell you that?’ she asked sharply, suddenly on her guard.
Neil didn’t answer. He’d probably said too much already.
‘They want to come here and conduct a thorough search of the castle.’ She looked Neil in the eye. ‘Robert’s not a suspect
is he? They said he’ll be staying here and he’s not supposed to leave the grounds … condition of his bail or something.’
‘Would you like me to stay tonight?’ Neil asked.
‘I could stay too,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ll get my things from the pub.’
Caroline nodded. ‘Would you? It’s not too much trouble?’
‘No trouble at all,’ said Andrew Beredace with a smile.
Ian Petrie had called twice while Wesley was away from his desk. The message lay there on top of a file containing
forensic reports – a reproach for his neglect of his old colleague. But some things couldn’t be helped.
He punched out Ian’s number. The phone was answered almost immediately.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ Ian said as soon as he heard Wesley’s voice. ‘Any idea when I can take Raymond Seed
back to London for questioning?’
‘Sorry, Ian, it might have to wait. But if you need to question him you can do it here. You know you have our full cooperation.’
There was a long pause. Then Ian spoke again. ‘How about a drink after work?’
Wesley looked at his watch. He’d already disappointed Ian once and when he looked at the heap of paperwork on his desk he
realised he was going to have to do so again. ‘Sorry, Ian, I really can’t make it today. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you.’
He replaced the receiver and looked up to see Paul Johnson standing by his desk.
‘There’s still no sign of Andrea Washington.’
‘We need to confirm that Jakes was the man she met on the night she was attacked. Keep trying.’
Paul nodded. ‘Uniform gave Delaware a lift back to Tradmouth to pick up some things then drove him up to Varley Castle. He
called in at his flat and stopped by his garage to get something from his car. Trish thought we should have a look to see
if he’s taken anything away from the flat – or left something incriminating.’
‘Trish thought?’ Wesley suppressed a smile. Paul and Trish had been carrying on a tentative courtship for years. Gerry had
often said he wished they’d just get on with it and make up their minds.
‘And did you have a look?’
‘Just a quick check.’
As if on cue, Trish appeared in the incident room door-way. She was well wrapped up in a brown woollen coat and a striped
scarf. She spotted Paul and gave him a shy smile. Nick Tarnaby was lurking behind her like a sulky child trailing after its
mother as she entered a room full of formidable aunts.
Trish marched straight over to Wesley’s desk. She had a plastic evidence bag in her hand and she placed it in front of him.
He looked at the objects inside then he looked up at Trish.
‘Anubis,’ he said, fingering a pair of painted figures through the plastic. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘In the cupboard by the fireplace. They weren’t there when the place was searched before.’
‘So someone must have been in and put them there.’
‘Delaware himself, I presume.’
‘He didn’t have the Anubis figures on him when he left hospital. His things were checked. And he was watched so he didn’t
have a chance to go anywhere to pick them up.’
‘The garage?’
‘It was searched and there are no obvious hiding places.’
‘The car then. We never searched his car.’
Trish cleared her throat. ‘He is the killer, isn’t he? There’s no doubt now, is there?’
Wesley didn’t answer for a few moments. ‘There’s always doubt, Trish. But he’s the best suspect we’ve got at the moment.’
He looked at the Anubis figures in front of him. ‘How many of these things are there?’
Trish shrugged. ‘Seed had quite a production line going.
Whoever killed those women must have bought quite a supply … unless Seed himself is our man.’
‘Or our man got hold of them somehow. Someone with links to Seed maybe … which includes Delaware. We still don’t know
what their exact connection is, do we?’
Trish gave a brief half smile. It was all very well, Wesley thought, to indulge in this constant speculation. But what they
needed was solid evidence.
Trish turned to go. He watched her cross the room but his thoughts were elsewhere. After a few moments his reverie was disturbed
by Rachel Tracey’s voice, slightly raised and brimming with excitement.
‘I’ve had someone looking through the CCTV footage of the waterfront on the night Isobel Grant died.’ She sounded excited.
‘There’s something on one of the cameras – the one above the estate agents. Isobel can be seen quite clearly and Jakes is
following her at a distance.’
Wesley sat up straight, suddenly attentive. ‘And?’
‘Then this dark hooded figure comes into view and Jakes scurries off like a scalded cat. There’s no way we can get an ID on
the figure – can’t even tell whether it’s a man or a woman but it does seem to be carrying some sort of holdall. It’s standing
there on the corner by the Harbour Master’s office and Isobel stops a few feet away. She seems to say something then the figure
disappears down the side road and Isobel follows.’
‘And?’
‘They both vanish. I’ve had someone checking other CCTV cameras but they don’t appear on any. If you go up that road then
along a bit you reach a flight of steps between two shops which leads directly to the back gate of the Buntons’ cottage where
she was found. If he’d found
the gate unlocked, which the Buntons admit it was because the bolt doesn’t work properly, and the house in darkness, then
he’d have had complete privacy in that courtyard to do whatever he liked undisturbed. Do you want a look at our killer?’
Wesley followed Rachel to the CCTV room. As he walked a few feet behind her he caught a waft of her perfume. Something heavy
and sexy. Maybe she was planning an exciting night with Farmer Nigel … if she could get off work at a reasonable time,
which was unlikely.
They sat together at a chaste distance in the semi-darkness and watched the monochrome image of the dead girl. When Isobel
spotted the figure waiting at the corner she seemed to hesitate, almost as though she was a little afraid. Then she straightened
her back and strode on boldly, only to disappear down a side street a couple of moments later.
‘She’s followed him so she must trust him,’ said Rachel as she replayed the tape, her eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Do you know,
I reckon he’s about the right height for Delaware.’
‘I think he’s slimmer.’
‘Mmm. It could even be a tall woman. She probably wouldn’t have been on her guard with a woman. What do you think?’
As Wesley fixed his eyes on the screen he thought Rachel might have a point.
He put on the mask. It felt secure and the smell of plastic with all its memories excited him. He had seen her face through
the eye holes. He had seen the astonishment and the fear as he sneaked up on her and the memory of her terror and her struggling
body still aroused him. His more recent planned attempt had been thwarted of course and, with all
the publicity about the murders, he’d wondered if he’d ever get a chance to use it again.
He’d chatted her up first in the pub and she’d been impressed by his lies, just as they all were. They were only interested
in money … in men with a bob or two. Gold-diggers, they used to call them. They needed teaching a lesson. They needed
a fright.
Tonight was different. He hadn’t used the pub strategy but instead he’d come out on the off chance: it was always wise to
change your MO and keep one step ahead of the police. As he watched and waited he longed to feel that power again. Women were
two-faced treacherous bitches … like his mother was when she abandoned him and his dad to go off with some rich bloke.
Suddenly he spotted a woman in the pub doorway, mini-skirted and tottering unsteadily in high heels like a baby gazelle. She
was dressed in a short dark coat with a small bag slung over her left shoulder. It looked as though his luck was in.
He followed her some way behind, head bowed so she wouldn’t see the mask if she turned round. And once they neared the castle,
he quickened his pace and started to gain on her, anticipating the terror on her face and the pleading look in her eyes when
she finally realised what was happening.
He had almost drawn level with her. He had already unzipped his trousers and he wondered whether he’d have the chance to take
things further this time. He could feel adrenaline pumping around his body as he grabbed at her coat and clung on tightly
to the cloth. He could smell her perfume mingled with dread and an overwhelming sense of power flooded through him. But he
still wasn’t sure if he
could manage to take the situation to the conclusion he longed for. With the Andrea woman he had lost the courage and with
that stupid vacuous bitch, Izzy, another bloke had turned up to scupper his plans. But even if he didn’t have the bottle to
do what he longed to do, he could still enjoy this new woman’s fear.
He clamped one arm tight around her waist and with his free hand he began to fumble with the buttons of her coat, searching
for an entrance to the bare flesh beneath. Then the breath was knocked out of him as an elbow struck hard into his ribs. It
happened so fast, the reversal of his world when the weak became the strong and the strong weak, and he felt a sudden rush
of pain as his intended victim pushed his arm up his back and he collapsed helpless to his knees.
His heart was pounding as the pretty young woman tore off the mask and put her face close to his. ‘I’m DC Dawkins, Neston
police. You’re nicked.’
The would-be attacker bowed his head as he abandoned all thoughts of escape.
Secrecy. It was essential, I was told, to avoid a scandal. And only two people, apart from myself, were to know the truth:
Sir Frederick himself and Mrs Ball, the housekeeper who had worked at the castle since it had been built by Sir Frederick’s
father.
Mrs Ball was a woman of few words. She had a reputation for harshness amongst the younger staff and I had no particular liking
for her. However, she would attend me in childbed because it was said that she had experience of such matters, having attended
her own niece when she had borne an illegitimate child by a footman some years ago. She took great delight in telling me that
on that occasion the baby had died. What a blessing it would be for me if my baby were to suffer a similar misfortune, she
whispered to me when we were alone. I was too shocked to make a reply but her words struck fear into my heart. What if Sir
Frederick had given instruction that, for the avoidance of a scandal, the child should not be permitted to live?
I was nearing my time now and my belly was large so there was no concealing my condition. I had been relieved of my duties
and a retired
schoolmistress from a nearby village had been engaged to teach Edward and Victoria in my absence. The children had been told
that I was unwell and that I was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. I imagined that they were missing me and I longed
to reassure them that I was well and would not die as their mama had done. Or would I? Childbirth was hazardous, especially
under the supervision of a midwife such as Mrs Ball.
One night when the household was asleep I crept down to Sir Frederick’s little museum of antiquities. There were things there
I wanted to see, things that gave me comfort. There was a birthing stool used by women in Ancient Egypt to aid them in labour.
If I’d possessed the courage, I would have asked to use it. And there were papyri there in the collection with prayers to
the cat goddess Bastet who was said to help women in childbed. I felt I would be in need of her care.
How my father would have chided me for placing my trust in false gods rather than the true God. I did not know then whether
he was right or wrong. I merely knew that I would need some help and the graceful statue of Bastet was there looking down
on me in that chamber of shadows and corpses lit only by the candle I had brought from my bedside. And next to Bastet was
the image of Anubis – the god who would prepare my body for the afterlife if the worst happened.