Trevor Gilbert stood by a large orange sofa which looked as if it hadn’t been out of the showroom long. ‘I’ve had the police
round here already today,’ he said, on the defensive.
‘I’m sorry, but we do need to talk to you,’ said Rachel Tracey quietly, mindful of the news she would soon have to break.
‘What’s going on?’ Gilbert continued. ‘Why don’t you get out there and catch the bastards who hijacked the lorry? Why are
you wasting time questioning me when you should be after the villains who did it?’
Gilbert was a small man in his late thirties with thinning hair and a belligerent manner. But his aggression couldn’t disguise
his nervousness as he played with the strap of his wristwatch.
‘I think it might be better if we sat down,’ Rachel suggested gently. Wesley had asked her to go along with him. She was good
with bereaved relatives and Gerry Heffernan’s bluntness might not have gone down well with a man who was about to be told
that his wife had been found floating dead in the English Channel.
Gilbert looked as though he were about to object. But something in the tone of Rachel’s voice made him obey. Wesley caught
her eye and nodded. It would probably be best if she did the talking.
‘We’re not here about the lorry hijack, Mr Gilbert. We’re here because your wife’s friend has reported her missing.’
Wesley was watching Gilbert’s expression, and he thought he saw something that looked almost like relief. Then, after a split
second, Gilbert was on his guard again.
‘She’s got someone else, you know. I said to Lisa when she rang that she’ll have gone off with him. Typical of the selfish
cow not to let anyone know. She’d never think
people’d be worrying about her.’
‘This other man . . . do you know who he is?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said quickly, and Rachel believed him. If Sally hadn’t confided in her bosom pal Lisa, she would hardly
have confided in her husband.
Rachel summoned all her reserves of tact for the next bit. She took a deep breath. ‘There’s no easy way of saying this, Mr
Gilbert, but I’m afraid that a body’s been found which fits your wife’s description. Right height, hair, clothes. I’m very
sorry . . .’
He stared at Rachel. ‘But Lisa only saw her on Friday,’ he muttered pathetically. ‘What about her car? Has that been found?’
‘Not yet. We’re looking for it.’
‘She’ll have gone off somewhere. If you can’t find her car it means . . .’ He hesitated. ‘This body . . . where was it found?’
‘In the sea near Millicombe.’
‘There you are, then. Sally hated boats and she couldn’t swim. There’s no way she’d . . .’
‘There was evidence of extensive injuries. It’s possible that the woman we found may have fallen some distance . . . from
the top of a cliff perhaps. There are a lot of cliff paths around that coast. Was your wife in the habit of going walking
or . . .?’
‘No way. It can’t be her,’ Trevor Gilbert said with fragile confidence, chewing at a fingernail.
Wesley and Rachel looked at each other. There was one way to find out for certain whether the dead woman was Sally Gilbert.
‘Mr Gilbert,’ Rachel began, ‘would you be willing to have a look at the body for us. It’s possible that it’s not your wife
but . . .’
‘It’s not her. It can’t be.’
‘It would still help us if . . .’
Gilbert took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘All right, then. But I know it won’t be her.’
‘We’ll take you down to the hospital,’ Rachel said quietly, ushering the man out of his living room. It was best to get this
over with quickly.
Gilbert walked before them obediently. But when he was about to open the front door he stopped dead.
‘Something the matter?’ Rachel asked, wondering whether he’d changed his mind.
But Gilbert had picked up a small collection of letters and was staring at them. ‘They’re for Sally,’ he mumbled. ‘I promised
to post them on.’
Wesley thought it best not to mention that Sally might not be in a position to receive letters. The man had to have hope.
‘Has she had many letters since she left?’
‘A few,’ muttered Gilbert, still staring at the envelopes.
‘Anything unusual? Any writing you didn’t recognise?’
Gilbert thought for a moment. ‘There was one late last week. I forwarded it on to Lisa’s address. I, er . . . I think it was
from a solicitor. It looked sort of . . . official.’
The word ‘divorce’ hung in the air unmentioned, but it was clear that this was what Gilbert suspected. Sally had intended
to make their separation permanent.
Trevor Gilbert didn’t say a word as Rachel drove towards Tradmouth Hospital.
It was five o’clock and the divers had already gone, using the excuse of uncongenial tides. But Neil Watson, who didn’t quite
understand these things, strongly suspected that they’d headed for the pub. Which was where he intended to go.
Half an hour earlier Jane had come ashore in the dinghy, still wearing her diving suit, her eyes glowing with excitement.
Underwater archaeology had always been her passion and she was enjoying every second of the search for the
Celestina
’s secret. But Matt, her boyfriend, didn’t share her enthusiasm; he stayed firmly on the dive boat to receive whatever the
divers brought to the surface.
Matt and Jane had made their way back to the cottage
they were all sharing, lent to them for the duration by Dominic Kilburn. But Neil lingered on the beach, feeling that the
couple might appreciate some privacy. He wondered, in view of the rumours about the treasure on board the
Celestina
, whether someone should be keeping watch on the beach all night to deter any treasure hunters who might take it into their
heads to dive down to the wreck. It was a long time since Neil Watson had slept on a beach, but he was up for it if necessary.
He sat on the sandy concrete steps leading to the disused café and breathed in the salty air. Chadleigh Cove had never been
one of the popular holiday beaches and had been used mostly by locals. But now it was private – part of the Chadleigh Hall
estate recently acquired by Kilburn Leisure Ltd – and its new owners had planted notices saying ‘Private property, no admittance’
all over the top of the narrow path that snaked up the cliff. Neil wasn’t sure that he agreed with notices that threatened
trespassers with instant prosecution, and several times he had resisted a strong temptation to tear them down.
However, the signs hadn’t deterred a group of adolescents who were running around at the other end of the beach, long limbed
and boastful; boys chasing screaming girls in some timeless mating ritual. But then Neil recognised one of them as Oliver
Kilburn, whose dad owned the beach, so presumably he could do as he pleased.
The day had been warm and sunny but now he felt a cool breeze on his naked back. He slipped his T-shirt over his head. If
the weather kept up it would certainly be warm enough to sleep beneath the stars as he and Wesley had done when they were
students helping to excavate a temple on a Greek island. Neil smiled, convincing himself that he felt sorry for Wesley with
his responsible suburban lifestyle. Wesley’s days of sleeping on beaches were definitely over.
His stomach rumbled as he listened to the sleepy rhythm of the waves. He knew that a meal and a few pints would be
waiting for him at the Wreckers, so he grabbed his rucksack and started up the beach towards the cliffs, hoping that Oliver
Kilburn and his friends wouldn’t decide to interfere with the team’s inflatable dinghies which now lay in the shade of the
café cum site headquarters. The currents in the cove were treacherous, but that sort of thing doesn’t usually worry the young
who are out to impress their fellows. The young can do stupid things, as Neil knew from his own experience.
As he neared the path up to the lane, he spotted a figure standing in the entrance to one of the caves in the rock face; a
tall figure wearing khaki shorts, his face hidden by a floppy cotton sunhat. Neil decided to investigate on a whim, a feeling
he couldn’t put into words. He left his rucksack and walked back, the soft sand slowing his steps, and as he drew nearer the
stranger turned. It was the man from the cottage on the cliff top who had allowed him to use his phone when the body had been
found. He was standing there watching the youngsters, minding his own business, and there was no way Neil was going to tell
him the beach was private.
The man spotted Neil and looked mildly embarrassed. ‘I saw the signs and I didn’t know if I should be down here. Then I saw
the kids and . . .’
‘As far as I’m concerned you can come down whenever you like.’
The man gave a shy smile, as though reassured. ‘What was all the fuss about yesterday?’ he asked.
‘The divers found a body in the sea.’
‘I gathered that much. Was it an accident or . . .?’
‘We don’t know. It was probably someone who fell off a boat or chucked themselves off a cliff. No doubt we’ll read all about
it in the local paper in due course.’
The man looked relieved, as if the incident of the body in the sea had been preying on his mind.
Neil held out his hand. ‘I didn’t have time to introduce myself last time we met. I’m Neil Watson.’
The man shook his hand. ‘Robin Carrington,’ he muttered.
‘Do you live in that cottage or are you here on holiday?’
‘It belongs to a friend. I’m down here to do some work.’
‘What do you do?’
He hesitated. ‘I’m a genealogist. I trace people’s ancestors.’
‘Really?’
The man sensed Neil’s interest and carried on. ‘I’m working for a family in the States who think they have local connections.’
‘So how did they contact you?’
‘Through the Internet. I have my own business.’
‘Successful?’
‘Oh, yes. They say that after pornography genealogy’s the most popular thing on the Internet. It’s what people want, a history.
I suppose that’s what we all want.’ He smiled. ‘I make a living from it, anyway.’
‘This your first time down here?’
‘No. I come down every year. I need a break from London.’
‘How’s your work going?’
Carrington smiled. ‘Very well. I’ve been rooting through local church registers and it turns out that my clients are related
by marriage to the family who owned a big house near here: Chadleigh Hall. They were called Iddacombe.’
Neil nodded. He knew about the Iddacombes, local landowners and shipowners. They had owned the
Celestina
.
‘My clients are called Smithers and they live in Connecticut. An Isaiah Smithers was master of a ship called the
Celestina
and his wife was an Iddacombe. I read in the local paper that you’re working on the wreck of the
Celestina
.’
‘That’s right. Have you found out much about Captain Smithers?’
‘Only that he’s buried in the graveyard of that little chapel just along the cliff path; the one that belongs to the hall.’
‘I’ll have to go along and pay my respects,’ said Neil. ‘Look, you’re very welcome to come down here any time and see what
we’re bringing up from the wreck. And if you’ve got any information about Captain Smithers or the Iddacombes . . .’
‘Isaiah Smithers’ wife was a Mary Anne Iddacombe and she was the daughter of John and Mercy Iddacombe, who owned Chadleigh
Hall. She’s buried in the graveyard too, and it looks like they died together when the
Celestina
was wrecked. She must have sailed with her husband.’
‘Bet she wished she’d stayed at home.’ Neil was running out of things to say. And he felt a sudden pang of hunger for the
fish and chips waiting for him at the Wreckers. ‘I’m off to the pub now for something to eat. Fancy a pint?’ He felt obliged
to be sociable.
Robin Carrington shook his head.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then. See you soon maybe.’
He trudged back down the beach and, as he picked up his rucksack, he turned. Carrington was gazing out to sea, oblivious to
the antics of the young people near by. Gazing out to the place where Captain Isaiah Smithers had lost his life.
Wesley Peterson made his way back to his modern detached house at the top of the town, strolling through the steep streets,
between tubs and window boxes festooned with colour and scenting the early evening air. It had been a beautiful day and it
would have been a pity to use the car. He stopped to catch his breath and turned round. As he looked at the rooftops of the
town spread out below him, tumbling down to the glistening ribbon of the River Trad, he had no regrets about leaving London
and the Met far behind.
As he walked on towards home he thought of Trevor Gilbert. He and Rachel had taken him to the hospital mortuary to identify
his wife’s body. He had gone into the room with dread, the smell of death and air freshener
making his stomach churn, and he had watched as Rachel had taken Trevor’s arm gently when the woman’s dead face was revealed.
The staff at the mortuary had done their best to make Sally presentable, but it was still a distressing experience for a man
who had courted her, lived with her and, presumably, loved her.
Trevor hadn’t spoken. He had just given an assenting nod as the crisp white sheet was pulled back. He had stayed silent as
they had driven him home and had nodded meekly when Rachel had explained that the post-mortem would be carried out in the
morning. His sister had been contacted and she had agreed to come over so that he wouldn’t be alone.
When Wesley arrived home he saw a space where Pam’s car should have been. He felt a pang of anxiety. Even after meetings and
lesson preparations, she was usually back from school by half five or six and now it was half past seven. What if she’d had
an accident? What if she’d been rushed to hospital – a miscarriage, or something wrong with their son, Michael?
As he put his key in the front-door lock all sorts of terrible scenarios began to unfold in his imagination. He called Pam’s
name but there was no answer.
He walked through to the living room and called again, but the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
The emptiness of the house came as a shock when he had expected the usual domestic chaos. The silence disturbed him.