‘But is she the right Carole Wilde?’
‘No harm in asking.’ Heffernan grinned.
‘Is Sam over there today?’
‘No. Unlike some of us, he’s got the weekend off. If we time it right we’ll get to Mrs Sanders’ in time for morning coffee,
eh?’ Heffernan smoothed his hair and looked down at his newly ironed shirt. Wesley sniffed the air. There was an unusual and
not unpleasant smell. Aftershave. Gerry Heffernan was wearing aftershave.
Wesley thought that it would be best to say nothing. But he’d have something to report to Pam after work.
‘Don’t forget we said we’d visit Lisa Marriott about that envelope she found – the one Sally Gilbert’s mysterious letter came
in. She said she’d be at the hotel today but she’d take the envelope with her if we wanted to call in and get it.’
‘Good. Rosie’s playing the piano in the hotel restaurant this lunch-time. We’ll go over and listen.’ He hit his head with
his hand as though he’d just remembered something. ‘Oh no, I can’t go. I’ve got a meeting with the Chief Super at twelve.
You’ll have to take Rachel. Anyway, I don’t suppose Rosie’d want her old dad embarrassing her. Poor lass, all this cleaning’s
given her hands like a washerwoman. Still, these students need the money these days. Pity they haven’t got a rich dad like
that Jason Wilde.’
Wesley didn’t comment. But from the little he’d seen of Jason Wilde, he hardly seemed a good advert for the merits of having
money in the family.
An hour later they were driving out of Tradmouth, up the steep hill at the side of the Naval College and past the council
estate. Just before they reached the open country, they turned into the drive of Gallows House.
The little girl they had seen the day before was amusing herself outside, throwing a tennis ball against the wall near
the kitchen. She could hardly play in the garden because it looked like a bombsite: the pond was dug but not yet lined and
wooden fencing lay around in neatly wrapped piles.
When Carole Saunders answered the door she invited them in, smiling but looking slightly puzzled. Wesley began by asking who
the little girl was and Carole told him it was Kayleigh, her cleaner’s daughter. Brenda was working at the Tradfield Manor
that day so Carole was looking after her. Not that Kayleigh needed much looking after. She was a sweet little thing.
Wesley tried to think where he’d heard the names before. Then he remembered. It was a Kayleigh who had given Pam that necklace
she had taken to wearing: and Pam had mentioned that Kayleigh’s mother was called Brenda and worked as a cleaner. It was too
much of a coincidence. It must be the same one.
Once they had mugs of freshly brewed coffee in their hands, Heffernan sat like a dumbstruck schoolboy and allowed Wesley to
do the talking. He came straight to the point.
‘Were you at Chadleigh Hall school in the sixties?’
Carole looked surprised. ‘Yes, I was. Why?’
‘It’s just that we came across your name – your maiden name – in one of our files. You were friendly with a girl who disappeared
from the school – Alexandra Stanes?’
‘Yes. She went off to London.’
‘Did she confide in you at all?’
Carole hesitated. ‘Alex was always quite secretive. I thought she was planning something but she never told anyone what it
was – not even me.’
‘Who did you think she’d gone off with?’
‘I don’t know. Someone said she’d had a boyfriend up where her parents lived . . . in the Midlands somewhere. As I said, she
was a very private sort of girl. She never told secrets. If she’d had any, we wouldn’t have known.’
‘But it said in the file you were her best friend,’ Wesley said, looking the woman in the eye. He had a sister and he
knew that teenage girls normally confided their innermost feelings to a ‘best friend’. But perhaps in the repressive atmosphere
of Miss Snowman’s school for young ladies, such things were discouraged and the old British virtue of ‘keeping yourself to
yourself’ had reigned supreme. Times change.
‘That doesn’t mean she told me everything. We all have things that we would rather remained secret, Inspector Peterson. Perhaps
she was afraid that if someone else knew she was planning to run away it would get back to one of the staff and she would
be stopped. Alex never seemed happy at Chadleigh Hall. But then the educational ethos of the time didn’t exactly encourage
personal happiness.’
‘We know,’ said Wesley. ‘We’ve met Miss Snowman.’
‘Then you’ll know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do. My mother-in-law went to Chadleigh Hall. She was in one of the years below you, I believe. Della Kelly.’
Carole thought for a moment. ‘The name’s familiar but we didn’t have much to do with any of the younger girls, I’m afraid.
Miss Snowman had strict views on desirable friendships,’ she added with a sad smile.
‘Miss Snowman said Alexandra was easily led. What do you think she meant by that?’
‘I’ve really no idea. I wouldn’t have described Alex that way, far from it. Perhaps she got her mixed up with someone else.
She must be quite elderly by now so perhaps her memory’s not what it was.’
Wesley opened his mouth to speak but Gerry Heffernan, still sitting on the edge of the settee with his mug in his hand and
on his best behaviour, cleared his throat. ‘Do you remember some builders who were working there around the time Alexandra
disappeared?’
‘Yes. It was Jack Kilburn and his son Dominic. My nephew, Jason, is very friendly with Dominic’s son Oliver. Dominic Kilburn
never noticed me all those years ago, of course. But we noticed him all right. He was very good looking in those days.’
‘What about the other lad who was working there – Peter Bracewell?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember. Why are you asking all these questions about Alex? Her parents received letters saying she was
safe. Surely . . .’
Wesley interrupted. ‘I don’t know whether you read in the local paper that the skeleton of a young woman was found at Chadleigh
Hall. There was evidence that she might have been killed around the date Alexandra disappeared. So you see . . .’
Carole Sanders’ hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh dear. I don’t know what to say.’
Wesley had an idea. ‘Do you know if Alexandra had had any dental work done? You see, the skeleton has no fillings or . . .’
‘No, I’m sorry; I can’t remember.’
‘And there’s nothing more you can tell us?’
Carole shook her head.
‘I’m sorry we’ve given you such a shock, love,’ Heffernan said gently, edging a little closer to her on the settee.
She gave him a weak smile. ‘I’ll be fine. But I’m sure you’re wrong. I’m certain Alex went off to London.’
Wesley watched as his boss put a comforting hand momentarily upon Carole’s. He withdrew it almost immediately and blushed.
Wesley stood up.
‘If you remember anything, anything at all, please let us know,’ he said with formal politeness.
‘I will.’ She looked at Gerry Heffernan and smiled shyly.
Definitely something to report to Pam. Given how tired she had looked that morning when he had left for work, she needed something
to cheer her up. Perhaps he’d take her some flowers tonight along with the news that Cupid seemed to be taking aim at Gerry’s
heart.
Carole saw them out, standing smiling at the door to wave them off. But as soon as their car was out of the drive, she rushed
back to the hall table, looked up a number
in the address book that was lying there, and picked up the telephone.
‘Do you think it’s time we tracked down Alexandra Stanes’s parents?’ Wesley asked when they returned to the station.
‘Mmm. But it’s not something I’m looking forward to. How do you tell someone their daughter might have died like that, eh?’
Wesley shuddered. He had no answer to the question. He was almost glad that he had his forthcoming call on Lisa Marriott at
the Tradfield Manor Hotel to take his mind off it.
When he and Rachel arrived at the hotel they made for the health spa, where they found Lisa in her crisp white uniform sipping
coffee, sitting, feet dangling, on a high hospital couch. She had kicked her high-heeled shoes off for comfort and looked
faintly embarrassed as they walked in.
‘I was just having my break – my next client’s not due till eleven thirty.’ She sounded as if she was trying to convince them
she wasn’t shirking. Not that they cared either way – but Wesley supposed Dominic Kilburn, the hotel’s owner, might.
Rachel smiled to put Lisa at her ease. ‘Have you got the envelope for us, the one from the letter Sally seemed so excited
about?’
Lisa slid down from the couch. ‘Yes. I put it in a plastic bag for you like I’ve seen them do on the telly. I thought that
was the right thing to do if it might be evidence.’ She said the last word with relish.
She delved into her capacious handbag and brought out a plastic bag containing a seemingly undamaged envelope. TV police dramas
had their uses.
Wesley took it from her and examined it. It was a thick cream-coloured envelope with a discreet pale blue stripe running along
its gummed edge; it was good quality,
expensive. The address was typed – the address Sally had shared with Trevor Gilbert – but it had been tidily crossed out
and Lisa’s address written above in small neat letters after the words ‘Please forward, thank you’. Trevor was a man who remembered
his manners. The words ‘Strictly private and confidential’ were typed in the top left-hand corner and the envelope was postmarked
Tradmouth and dated the Saturday before Sally’s death.
There was no hint of what it had contained. No firm’s name printed on the envelope; no sender’s address written on the back.
It certainly looked to Wesley like the type of solid, reliable envelope used by professionals; accountants, solicitors or
architects. But without a name they had no way of knowing. He had a feeling that the envelope wasn’t going to be much help,
but they took it away with them, just in case.
They left Lisa enjoying what was left of her coffee. It struck Wesley that he had never actually encountered Lisa when she
was doing any work, her ‘clients’ being always imminent but never actually there.
Rachel looked into his eyes and gave a shy smile. ‘Anything else you want to do while we’re here, Wesley? Massage, swim in
the pool, slap-up lunch?’ She sounded as if she’d be keen to take on all three. But Wesley assumed she was joking.
‘Another time, perhaps. The boss’s daughter’s playing piano in the restaurant this lunch-time but I don’t suppose we can go
in and say hello without eating something.’
‘Pity,’ said Rachel as they began to walk towards the reception area.
Wesley spotted a woman dressed in neat navy blue disappearing into a lift ahead of them carrying an armful of files. She looked
familiar, and after a few seconds he remembered where he’d seen her before. ‘Isn’t that Peter Bracewell’s wife?’ he whispered.
‘What was her name? Sandra?’
Rachel nodded. ‘She must work here.’ She looked
around. ‘I must say I’m impressed with the Tradfield Manor. It’s a nice place.’
‘Pam and I are coming here for dinner tonight. There’s a special offer on – two meals for the price of one.’
Rachel said nothing.
‘I believe the food here’s very good,’ Wesley continued. ‘You should try it while the offer’s still on.’
‘Not much fun eating on your own,’ she said sharply, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. Self-pity wasn’t
an attractive emotion.
But before Wesley could reply, he spotted two young men walking past the reception desk. There was something furtive about
them, as if they were up to something. Wesley stopped dead.
‘What is it?’ Rachel asked in a whisper.
‘That’s Jason Wilde – Sebastian Wilde’s son: I saw him yesterday. And that lad with him’s Oliver Kilburn: he was at Chadleigh
Cove when Sally Gilbert’s body was found. His dad owns this hotel.’
‘What do you think they’re up to?’
Wesley grabbed a leaflet advertising local visitor attractions from a wooden rack and pretended to study it. ‘They might recognise
me,’ he whispered to Rachel. ‘You stand in front of me and keep an eye on what they’re doing.’
‘A woman’s come out to meet them.’ Rachel spoke in a low undertone. ‘She’s wearing an overall – looks like a cleaner or a
chambermaid. She’s giving them something. Looks like a key.’
Wesley couldn’t resist turning to see what was going on. The boys and their female companion seemed engrossed in their own
affairs, unaware that they were being watched.
Suddenly Mike Cumberland, the hotel manager, emerged from his office and the woman hurried away as though she knew she wasn’t
supposed to be there.
Wesley saw Oliver Kilburn give Cumberland an arrogant stare and stroll off towards a door marked ‘Staff only’ with
Jason Wilde following behind. The boss’s son, apparently, could get away with anything.
As soon as they were out of sight, Wesley and Rachel marched up to the reception desk.
Steve Carstairs was triumphant. He had finished his phone calls in good time, confirming that no Nestec computers had been
offered to any other outlet in the area. Then Gerry Heffernan, who seemed to be in an uncommonly good mood, had relented and
told him he could go and help Harry Marchbank with his search for Robin Carrington.
Steve drove, navigating his nearly new Ford Probe along the narrow lanes, fearing for his glossy paintwork as the hedgerows
tickled the sides of the car. He finally pulled up in the carpark of the Wreckers Inn. They would walk the rest of the way.
It wasn’t far. Just down the lane.
As he and Harry emerged from the car, he noticed a group of people milling around the pub entrance. Steve recognised one of
them as Wesley Peterson’s scruffy, long-haired friend – the archaeologist, Neil Watson – and he turned away, hoping he hadn’t
been seen. Some of the others were stowing what looked like diving equipment in the boots of parked four-wheel-drive vehicles.
Steve knew that they were working on a shipwreck down in the cove. Not that he was interested in that sort of thing.
He and Harry marched down the lane. From the look of fierce determination on Harry’s face, he didn’t reckon much to Carrington’s
chances if Harry got his hands on him. But he was also curious about why this case meant so much to his former colleague,
why Harry was pursuing him like Inspector Dew after Crippen . . . another wife-murderer.