‘Yes, you’re right.’ Pam glanced at her watch. If she went home now she could catch up with some lesson preparation. She felt
a twinge of irritation that Della hadn’t kept her up to date with her arrangements. But it was typical of her mother to be
so thoughtless.
‘Now, how about that tea?’
Pam stood up and gave a regretful smile. ‘That’s very good of you, Mary, but I think I’d better head back.’
‘I’m so sorry you’ve had a wasted journey,’ said Mary.
Pam thought she could see relief on her face. She’d much rather be with her animals than entertaining a virtual stranger.
Pam said a polite goodbye and made for the car, too irritated with her mother to take much notice of her surroundings. If
she had looked around she would have seen a light going off in Clare Mayers’s cottage and a dark figure standing in the shadow
of the hedgerow opposite.
As she fumbled in her bag for her car key, the figure closed in behind her, moving silently on tiptoe like an animal stalking
its prey.
Tom had just called to give Wesley the address and phone number of Gemma Fielding. Isobel Grant had e-mailed her shortly before
her death and Wesley had a feeling – a gut instinct – that this particular avenue of enquiry might not lead to a dead end
as so many others had. But he knew he’d been wrong before.
He dialled Gemma’s number and listened to the ringing tone droning away in some distant Liverpool room. Just as he was about
to give up, he heard a female voice saying a breathless hello. ‘Is that Gemma Fielding?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded wary, as though she feared he was intending to sell her something.
After he’d introduced himself there was a short puzzled silence. ‘Are you still there, Ms Fielding?’
‘Yes. What do you want?’
Wesley paused, aware that he might be about to break
devastating news. ‘I don’t know whether you’re aware that Isobel Grant was found murdered?’
There was a short silence at the other end of the line. Then she spoke quietly. ‘I saw it on the TV. It’s awful. I can’t believe
she’s dead. I mean she was so … So full of life. She was one of those people who was up for anything.’
This wasn’t the Isobel her mother had described but sometimes parents don’t know the true nature of their children. ‘You sent
her an e-mail on the seventeenth of February. You advised her not to ask somebody for money. Can you tell me what that was
about?’
‘I don’t see how it can have anything to do with her murder. Wasn’t it some serial killer?’
Suddenly Wesley wondered whether he was on the right track. But he decided to persist. ‘Please. Whatever you can tell us might
be important.’
Gemma hesitated for a few moments and Wesley wished he could see her face to face.
‘A couple of weeks ago she came up to Liverpool for the weekend and stayed in my flat. Anyway when we’d had a few drinks she
told me about this plan. She’d shared a house with two other students in her second year and one of them …’
‘One of them what?’
‘Izzy said she’d seen this person again recently and she’d had this idea. She was really desperate to get a place of her own.
That’s why she did it. I said it was blackmail and she could get into trouble but …’
Wesley tried to make sense of her words but failed. ‘Let me get this clear. Isobel was planning to blackmail someone?’
Gemma hesitated again, unwilling to speak ill of the dead. ‘I suppose so but …’
‘Who is this person?’
‘I didn’t know him – she shared with him the year before we met. He was in his third year – older than us. I didn’t meet Izzy
till she was looking for someone to share with in her last year and she answered our advert. We had a spare room, you see,
and …’
Wesley took a deep breath. ‘Do you know what she was planning to blackmail this person about?’
There was a long pause and Wesley repeated the question.
Then Gemma spoke, her voice hushed. ‘Izzy said he killed someone. And then he committed suicide … drowned himself in the
Albert Dock.’
‘I thought you said she’d seen him.’
‘That’s what she told me. It doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘Where did she say she’d seen him? Was it up in Liverpool when she visited you?’
There was a pause. ‘No. She said it was down in Devon near where she was living. She said he didn’t recognise her but she
recognised him. Look, she probably made a mistake. It was probably just someone who looked like him.’
‘Do you know this man’s name?’
‘She just referred to him as Lazarus – cause she thought he’d come back from the dead, I guess. And, like I said, I never
met him and she never mentioned him when we were sharing in the third year.’
‘Do you know anything else about him? What he studied at university, for instance?’
‘No. But I know the other bloke Izzy shared with in the second year was studying dentistry – Izzy used to joke about it. His
name was Dominic but I’m not sure of his surname. I’ll see if I can track him down so I can ask him if he knows any more.
But I can’t promise anything.’
‘I can get Merseyside police to do that.’
‘I can ask around – friends of friends. Might be quicker.’
‘OK. But we really need a breakthrough before this killer tries again.’
Gemma promised she’d do her best. Wesley only hoped that her best would be good – and quick – enough. But he put in a call
to Merseyside as well. Some things were too important to leave to amateurs.
Pam flicked the remote control and the car locks clicked open. She walked round to the driver’s door, key at the ready to
make a fast getaway, thinking of all the school work squatting in the car boot waiting for her attention while Della had all
the fun of taking the children out for tea.
As she reached for the door handle, she glanced back at the dark, quiet lane and saw a car parked up just beyond Clare Mayers’s
cottage. But she paid it no attention and pulled the door open, anxious to head for home.
She was quite unprepared when a strong arm grabbed her from behind. But in a split second her instinct for survival took over
and adrenaline pumped through her body as she wriggled and fought with all the strength she could muster, clawing at her assailant’s
dark clothing, kicking at his shins, trying to catch enough breath to scream out.
For a brief moment she managed to writhe out of the thing’s grasp and turn her head, only to see that her attacker had the
head of a painted jackal. She could see glittering eyes inside the mask, narrowed like a beast going for the kill. And that
fearsome head was the last thing she saw before she was knocked flying and her head hit the hard, damp surface of the lane.
Two weeks after the birth of my son I was told that I should resume my duties. Sir Frederick still kept his distance and it
was clear to me that there was to be no mention of what had passed between us. It was in the past and the future stretched
before me, bleak and barren in that high fortress. They had taken away my child and without him my life was nothing.
It was a full six months after that terrible night of pain, birth and loss when I saw my child again. I had experienced in
those days a strong desire to be alone with my thoughts and I had taken to walking in solitude around the estate and the surrounding
countryside. One day I was walking in the woodland not far from the castle when I ventured onto an unfamiliar path. It took
me to the boundary of the woods where I came upon a cottage. A small red-headed woman, not young but not yet old, was hanging
out washing in the garden and I watched her for a while from the shelter of the trees for she was singing as she went about
her work and she seemed so contented that I felt a pang of envy, especially when I spied the large perambulator standing near
to the kitchen door.
After a while the child in the perambulator began to cry and, abandoning her task, the woman walked slowly across the small
neat garden to pick it up. As soon as I saw the child I knew that he was mine and I was sorely tempted to call out, to break
through the fence and grab my baby. But I knew this would serve no purpose other than to get me sent away. At least this way
I would be close to him.
I returned to the castle with a heavy heart, wondering how I could see more of my son. Then I realised that I must be bold.
I must confront Frederick and tell him that I wished to play a part in our son’s life. Naturally, his foster mother would
see to his everyday needs but he would come to know me as a kind aunt, perhaps, one he could always go to in times of trouble.
I would brook no argument. He was my own flesh and I would not surrender his love and regard meekly.
That evening I ate alone in my room as I had done since the later stages of my pregnancy. Then I made my way down to the museum
room where I knew Frederick always went after dinner. I often went in that room myself at times I knew I would be undisturbed
to study the artefacts and read the papyri. I regretted that I could no longer share my passion with Frederick. The loss of
this intimacy hurt me almost as much as the loss of my child.
As I had expected Frederick was there, poring over a new papyrus that had been sent to him by one of his colleagues. To my
great relief, my fear that John would be there with him was unfounded; but then John, unlike myself, had little interest in
his father’s passion. Frederick looked up as I entered that room and I saw guilt in his eyes. Then something else – a hardness
of heart that made my own heart sink.
‘I have seen our son,’ I said, kneeling by his side. ‘He is a fine boy. I beg you to allow me to see him. I would like him
to know me
…
to grow to love me.’
Frederick turned his head away. ‘That is out of the question. He belongs to the Mortons now. They are a good couple and they
care for him deeply. It is best that he never knows you. And if you defy me on this
matter you will be sent away without a reference.’ When he turned to face me, his eyes held no warmth, only contempt. ‘Or
you can seek another post if you prefer. I will give you a good recommendation.’ He paused for a moment and looked me in the
eye. ‘Perhaps that would be for the best.’
His words struck me like a blow. I stood up but my legs felt unsteady as I realised how powerless I was. I could have struck
him there and then but I knew that a woman in my position is in need of a good character if she is not to sink into the darkest
depths of poverty and degradation.
‘But he is your son.’ I said the words without thinking.
‘I have two fine sons and John will inherit all this when I am gone. I have no need of a bastard.’
I picked up my skirts and ran back to my humble quarters. But the next day I returned to the museum. I found the papyrus Sir
Frederick had been reading lying there on the table where he had left it the previous night. I sat down to read it and when
I translated the hieroglyphs my heart thrilled with excitement and my course of action became clear in my mind.
There was no reply when Wesley tried to call Pam to tell her he’d be late. Then he remembered that Della was taking the children
to the sanctuary again. That’s where Pam would be … trying to curb her mother’s enthusiasm.
He’d gone over what Gemma Fielding had told him in his mind but it still didn’t make sense. Whoever killed those three women
and attacked Clare Mayers knew about John Varley’s crimes in great detail and had access to sheets that most likely came from
Varley Castle. It seemed very likely that Gemma’s story was just another diversion.
But he had to know for sure. Gerry was at his desk, head down over a file, and Wesley sensed that he would welcome an interruption,
even one that wasn’t potentially important. The DCI looked up as Wesley gave a swift knock on his open office door. ‘I hope
you’ve got good news,’ he said. ‘The Nutter’s questioning our overtime sheets … again. Anything from Varley Castle about
Caroline Varley and Robert Delaware?’
‘A couple of patrol cars have gone up there to investigate but there’s no news yet.’ Wesley sat down. ‘I’ve just been talking
to a woman called Gemma Fielding up in Liver-pool. She was a mate of Isobel Grant’s and they kept in touch by e-mail. She thinks
Isobel was trying to blackmail someone.’
Gerry’s eyes lit up. ‘So little miss nice harmless physics teacher had a dark side, eh? According to her loving mother she
was a saint.’ He smiled. ‘Mind you, Wes, I don’t see how it can be relevant. Our killer doesn’t care who his victims are or
what they’ve done. They just have to be female and in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Wesley knew Gerry was probably right. But he couldn’t banish Gemma’s words from his mind.
‘So you don’t think this alleged blackmail attempt has anything to do with all this?’
‘I always keep an open mind, Wes. But at the moment Delaware’s our priority.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And let’s face it,
what do we really know about him? Only that he’s a not-very-successful writer and that he has some sort of connection with
Raymond Seed which we haven’t really got to the bottom of yet. He’s got no criminal record so his prints aren’t on file. He’s
a mystery man.’
‘But is he our man?’
‘I can’t think of anyone better at the moment … can you?’ He hesitated. ‘We can’t afford distractions, Wes. Three women
have died so far. John Varley killed four.’
‘And you think Delaware will try to match his record?’
‘Come on, Wes, don’t you? Who else had access to those sheets? Who else has been studying John Varley’s crimes? How long has
Caroline Varley been missing now?’
‘An hour or so.’
Gerry looked solemn. ‘So if Delaware’s our killer, we’re probably too late.’ He banged his fist down on the desk. ‘I feel
like a spare part sitting here. We should be out on Dartmoor looking for them.’
Wesley understood the boss’s feeling of frustration: he’d often felt like that himself. ‘Dartmoor’s a big place, Gerry. Leave
it to the uniforms on the ground.’
Gerry glanced at his watch. ‘Even so, we should get someone up to Varley Castle to see what’s going on.’
Wesley returned to his desk and picked up the phone. Maybe he just hadn’t asked Gemma Fielding the right questions.
The two uniformed officers had details of all the nearby premises and they knew that the cottage on the fringe of the woods
was empty and awaiting renovation. But as the patrol car drew up outside there was a flickering light in the window. Somebody
was in there doing God knows what.
The officers exchanged a look and climbed out of the car, putting on their hats. It was probably just a couple of local kids
using the cottage for a bit of how’s your father but DCI Heffernan had given strict orders that everywhere had to be checked
out.
PC Dawson, a large man with a substantial beer belly, walked on tiptoe to the window but when he tried to peep inside he found
that the ragged curtains had been drawn across.
He turned to his colleague, Shirley – a middle-aged policewoman who’d seen it all. ‘You taking bets on rumpy-pumpy? We could
do ’em for trespass … breaking and entering. Let’s give ’em the shock of their lives, eh?’
As Shirley emerged from the car, thinking about the
paperwork, PC Dawson rapped loudly on the front door, a wicked grin plastered on his face. ‘Police. Open up.’
When there was no reply he tried the latch and found the door was locked. Shirley rolled her eyes impatiently. ‘Come on, Pete.
Caroline Varley’s hardly likely to have gone to ground in some derelict cottage.’
‘Breaking and entering, Shirley … think of our clear-up figures.’
Suddenly they heard raised voices, one male one female – an argument but no lovers’ spat.
‘We’d better get in there.’
Shirley stood back as Dawson put his shoulder to the half-rotten door and, to her surprise, it gave way easily. She stumbled
into the house after her colleague and positioned herself behind him as he gave the door to their right a mighty kick.
The scene revealed as the door flew open reminded Shirley of pictures she’d seen of King Tutankhamen’s tomb. An army of statues
gazed malevolently towards the mantel-piece and in the centre of the room, where a coffee table would be in any normal house,
lay a painted Egyptian sarcophagus, open to reveal a battered mummy. She gathered her thoughts and glanced at the two photographs
in her hand. It was them all right.
Robert Delaware was sitting on what looked like an Egyptian stool, his head in his hands, and Caroline Varley was standing
by the empty fireplace, staring in shock at the uniformed intruders. He looked penitent … and she looked furious.
‘Mr Delaware … Ms Varley,’ Shirley said with a hint of triumph. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
*
‘Something wrong?’
Wesley looked up and saw Rachel Tracey standing by his desk with a concerned look on her face. ‘I can’t get hold of Pam. She
should be home by now.’
‘Probably been held up somewhere.’
‘Probably.’
The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up. After a short conversation, he turned to Rachel who was still hovering nearby.
‘Robert Delaware and Caroline Varley have been found in an empty cottage on the edge of the estate.’
‘They’ve got a whole bloody castle full of bedrooms if they want—’
‘I don’t think they were there for fun. The cottage was full of Egyptian artefacts. Delaware’s just made a statement and he
admits that he’d been nicking items from the castle under Caroline’s nose. It all had to stop, of course, once Neil and the
bloke from the British Museum arrived to catalogue everything. Raymond Seed was arranging to sell the things for him and the
stuff was being stored in the empty cottage until Seed could take them to London. The murder business delayed their plans.’
‘I bet it did.’
‘Anyway, Caroline’s just stumbled on his guilty secret and she’s told him exactly what she thinks of his thieving ways. When
the police arrived he came like a lamb.’
‘No love interest then?’
‘If he was ever in with a chance, he’s not now. He’s being brought in for questioning.’
‘So does this mean Delaware’s out of the frame for the murders?’
Wesley considered the question. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Is Caroline OK?’
‘She’s fine, just angry that Delaware betrayed her trust like that. Neil’s volunteered to stay there and keep her company.’
Wesley stood up. ‘I’m going out. The DCI’s gone upstairs to see CS Nutter. If he asks, tell him I’m following up the Gemma
Fielding lead. I’ve just had some more information from her that could be relevant.’ He looked down at a scrap of paper on
his desk – a list in his neat handwriting. ‘And I’d better let Ian Petrie know about Delaware: it looks like he’s the missing
link to Raymond Seed. Why smuggle in Egyptian artefacts when you can help yourself from an uncatalogued source nearby?’
‘So who’s our killer then?’
Wesley didn’t answer. He had a feeling that Gemma Fielding might hold the key but the connections were still nebulous gossamer
threads that were only just starting to shape themselves into a feasible solution.
The phone rang again and he answered, hoping it would be something useful. It was extremely rare for Della to ring him at
work but now she was on the other end of the line and she sounded worried.
‘I’ve just got to your house. Pam’s car’s not here and there’s no sign of her. And I found the kitten locked in the kitchen
– she hadn’t been fed. Have you any idea where she is?’
Wesley was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of dread. This must be what it was like to have two officers turn up on your
doorstep with sympathetic expressions and bad news.
‘I’ve been trying her mobile but there’s no answer,’ Della continued. ‘I tried the school too but they said she left ages
ago.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t think she got my message about not bothering to pick the kids up from Mary’s. There’s
no answer from the sanctuary but that’s not surprising ’cause Mary’s often outside with the animals. Pam should have turned
up by now. Something’s wrong – I know it is.’
This was a new, humble Della. There was no sneering at the police now. She was desperate for help. He took a deep breath and
told himself to stay calm. There was probably some simple explanation.
‘I’ll be right round there,’ he said.
Pam came to and opened her eyes, vaguely aware of moonlight trickling through branches and clouds scudding across the darkened
sky.
Her neck hurt as though a knife had pierced the flesh and when she tried to swallow she winced with the agonising pain.
She shifted her body a little. Wherever she was, it was cold and the surface she lay on was hard with sharp stones that bit
into her flesh. It was then she realised that she was naked and wrapped tightly in something white.
Through a haze of pain she gulped air into her lungs and moved her limbs experimentally. At first she feared that she’d been
tied up. But then she realised that whatever was enveloping her body was also restricting her movements. She could feel damp
seeping through the cloth that was her only protection against the elements and she shivered with the cold as she lay there
assessing her situation, unwilling to make any sort of noise in case it attracted the attention of the creature with the jackal
head, the last thing she’d seen before she’d lost consciousness.
With a great effort she managed to turn her head a little and she saw that she was lying in the entrance to a field. Sniffing
at the air like a trapped animal she struggled to free
her limbs and when the wrappings gradually loosened she managed to touch her tender throat. She could feel a line where something
had bitten into her flesh and she realised that the creature had probably left her there because it thought she was dead.
Slowly she summoned the strength to grasp the white cloth in her icy, numb fingers and struggle unsteadily to her feet. She
could see her car just a few yards away. Whoever had attacked her must have dragged her the short distance to prevent her
from being seen from the nearby cottages or by any passing motorist. But she was alive and safety was a short walk across
the lane.
She pressed her body against the hedgerow, afraid that her attacker might still be hiding somewhere, waiting for her to break
cover; watching like a cat watches an injured mouse. Then she began to take her first, tentative, tottering steps across the
road, razor-sharp stones cutting into the tender soles of her feet. She couldn’t see her clothes anywhere … or her car
keys or her bag with her mobile phone inside. But she could hear dogs barking and she could see Mary’s house ahead, a light
from one of the upstairs windows casting a pale-gold rectangle onto the rough ground.
She tripped over the sheet that covered her nakedness and landed heavily on her knees, grazing them on the rough ground. As
she struggled to her feet her knee felt as though it had been stung by a thousand angry wasps and she saw a small patch of
blood seeping through the white cloth. But she pulled the sheet close around her body and stumbled forward.
Her head swam and the pain of swallowing brought about an overwhelming wave of nausea. But she had to stay calm and alert.
She had to think.
*
‘There’s no sign of her.’ Della looked at her son-in-law with desperate eyes. They were in the living room, standing up. Neither
felt like sitting down.
Wesley had made a thorough search of the house but he’d found no evidence that Pam had returned home. He’d left several messages
on Mary’s machine but Della insisted that she didn’t often check it when she was busy with the animals. He’d also contacted
Traffic Division and the local hospitals in case there’d been an accident. But he’d drawn a blank.
He had often wondered how people felt when their loved ones went missing and now he had the answer. He felt over-whelmed,
so numb with anxiety and dread that he found it almost impossible to function. The children were in the living room watching
TV, unaware that anything was wrong – and Wesley wanted it kept that way.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Wes.’ He looked round and saw concern in Gerry Heffernan’s eyes. ‘She’ll turn
up.’
‘I’ve tried all her friends but …’
‘All patrols are keeping an eye out for her car. You’ve got your kiddies to look after.’ Gerry hesitated. ‘Or do you want
someone to take them to your sister’s?’
Wesley looked at Della. His sister Maritia, a GP and vicar’s wife, would be a more calming influence than his mother-in-law.
Besides, Pam was Della’s only daughter: she was too emotionally involved. ‘I’ll give Maritia a call,’ he said. ‘If some one
can take the kids over to Belsham vicarage …’
‘No problem.’
‘And send a patrol car round to the animal sanctuary. Della reckons Pam might not have got that message to say she’d already
left.’
‘If she’d gone there she’d be answering her phone surely?’
‘Something might have happened on the way or …’
‘OK, Wes. But don’t you think you’re overreacting? She could have decided to go shopping while Della had the kids or …’