Old Coastguard Cottage came into sight. Steve hoped they’d got the right place. He wanted to get this over with. It was lunch-time
and he was hungry.
A rickety wooden garage stood about ten yards away
from the cottage to the side of the colourful garden. Steve walked up to it and peeped through the filthy window. There was
a car. A silver Nissan.
‘Harry. This his motor?’
Harry looked in the window and nodded. ‘Looks like it. Come on.’
Steve left it to Harry to knock on the door. It was his collar – the reason why he’d come all the way down to Devon. It was
only right that he should be in at the kill. Harry knocked softly. No aggressive ‘Police, open up’. The door opened slowly
but Steve couldn’t see who was behind it.
Harry pushed the front door open and barged into the hallway. A young man stood pressed up against the wall and Steve watched
as Harry grabbed him, twisting his arm up his back before whispering viciously in his ear. Suddenly Steve felt uneasy, afraid
that Harry would go too far. And he regretted coming on his own; Harry might have behaved himself better with someone else
present.
‘Robin Carrington, I’m arresting you for the murder of Harriet Carrington . . .’
But he was interrupted by the sharp ring of the telephone on the hall table – an old Bakelite model. It was a long time since
Steve had heard a phone make such a noise. Harry pushed Carrington against the wall and picked up the receiver. ‘Watch him,
Steve,’ he ordered before saying hello to the caller.
‘Robin,’ said an anxious female voice on the other end of the line. ‘Robin, is that you?’
Harry Marchbank answered in the affirmative. With any luck he might net a female accomplice at the same time.
‘Look, I won’t stay on long, ’cause I’m ringing from a call-box. I’ve moved down the coast to a new place. Has Jeremy sent
the insurance cheque yet? How soon do you think you can get over here?’
Harry’s voice was hesitant. ‘Sorry, love, this isn’t Robin. I’m a friend of his . . . met him down the pub. Who shall I say’s
calling?’
The woman sounded annoyed. ‘Tell him it’s Harriet. His wife.’
Harry hesitated a moment, as though he’d had a shock. ‘He can’t come to the phone at the moment but I know he wanted to know
where you were.’ Steve thought Harry sounded innocent, convincing.
‘Who is that?’
‘Just a sec, love.’ Harry covered the mouthpiece and turned to Robin Carrington, who was now crouching against the wall, his
head in his hands. ‘There’s a lady here says she’s your dead wife. A voice from the grave. I think we should have a word down
the nick, Robin, don’t you?’ He put the receiver to his ear again. ‘Hello, love, you still there?’ But the caller had rung
off.
Steve was watching Harry Marchbank’s face and he was surprised to see a smile of relief. Almost of joy.
Rachel and Wesley walked down a corridor. Its walls had been painted magnolia a few years ago and were in need of a fresh
coat, and its floor was covered with green linoleum; a backstage area strictly for staff rather than guests. They forged ahead
until they reached a door marked ‘No Entry’. Then they stood, wondering what their next move should be.
Suddenly they heard voices: a male – no, two males – and a female, raised in disagreement. The female was saying something
about wanting her cut. But the rest was muffled, like voices heard under water. After a minute or so they made a decision.
They were going in. Rachel pushed the door open.
They stepped into a large gloomy storeroom, half under ground. It was filled with the detritus of the hotel – bulky grey shapes
were outlined in the weak light that crept in through a tiny barred window: mattresses; bed bases; furniture, mostly old and
dust covered. To one side stood a pile of large cardboard boxes, stacked neatly one on top of the other.
A door closed somewhere in the distance – another entrance to the room perhaps. Suddenly Wesley felt himself being shoved
to one side by strong hands and two figures, young and male, dashed past. He grabbed at them but they dodged him neatly like
experienced rugby players. As they passed Rachel they knocked her off balance and she staggered, clutching at a cardboard
box, before falling on the dusty floor, bringing a tower of heavy boxes tumbling down around her.
The two young men didn’t stop. They dashed out of the door and all Wesley could do was watch their receding backs. But he
wasn’t too worried. He knew who they were.
Mary Anne Iddacombe was but sixteen and possessed a delicate beauty and a sweet nature. When she called upon me with her request,
I spoke to her at length and I sensed an iron resolve behind her words. She loved Isaiah Smithers and she would have him.At the back of my mind were the rumours of her own mother’s indiscretions with Captain Smithers, and I felt I had to learn
the truth before I consented to the girl’s request. I decided to speak plainly, but my words were greeted with astonishment.
Her mother’s dealings with Captain Smithers had always been most proper. Her mother’s affections, she assured me, were placed
elsewhere, and Lord Mereham had been paying her much attention of late.Thus reassured, I requested that she and the captain call upon me the next day.
If I had known what the future held for that unfortunate couple, I should have spoken with more caution.
From
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by the Reverend Octavius Mount, Vicar of Millicombe
Wesley walked slightly behind Mike Cumberland, who strutted towards the staff entrance, bestowing a hospitable
smile on any guest who happened to come into view. Cumberland used the hotel foyer as an actor uses the stage – to give a
performance. Once he was behind the scenes, the obsequious smile disappeared.
‘Who was that woman Oliver Kilburn was talking to?’
‘That was Brenda Dilkes – one of our cleaners.’
Wesley raised his eyebrows. Brenda Dilkes again. Kayleigh Dilkes’s mother: the appreciative parent who had provided Pam with
the pretty gift.
‘And the boys – did they get out through reception?’
Cumberland looked annoyed. ‘Yes. They came dashing through and nearly knocked an elderly guest flying. I’m going to have a
word with Mr Kilburn. I mean, I know Oliver’s his son but it puts me in a very difficult position if he’s going to come to
the hotel and behave like . . .’
Wesley stopped him in full flow. ‘Had you any idea that they were using your hotel to store stolen computers?’
‘Of course not. If I’d known, I would have told the police . . . naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ echoed Wesley.
‘And if Brenda Dilkes was aiding and abetting them, I can assure you that her days at this hotel are numbered too. That storeroom
is usually kept locked.’
‘Who has access to the key?’
‘It’s kept in the housekeeper’s office.’
‘Would Brenda be able to get it?’
‘Officially not but . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. They had reached the storeroom door.
Rachel was inside sitting on an old mattress, holding her head. She smiled weakly as Wesley asked whether she was all right.
‘I can call the hotel doctor if the young lady’s hurt,’ Cumberland offered anxiously.
‘I’m fine,’ Rachel replied. She looked at Wesley and shook her head. She didn’t want any fuss.
Wesley began to examine the cardboard boxes. The name Nestec was clearly visible, printed on the sides in large
black letters. They’d taken a risk hiding them here.
‘We’d better find that woman who was with them,’ said Rachel. ‘She’s obviously involved.’
‘Mr Cumberland says she’s a cleaner – name of Brenda Dilkes.’
Rachel touched her head and winced.
‘Are you okay? I think you should go to hospital and get that checked out.’
Rachel glared at him, her mouth arranged in a determined line. ‘I’m fine. There’s no need . . .’
‘You’re going. I’ll pull rank if necessary. You’ve had a blow on the head and passed out. You can’t be too careful with concussion.’
‘It’s a bit sore but I’m fine. Don’t fuss.’
‘The inspector’s right,’ Cumberland chipped in. ‘I’ll call the hotel doctor and ask him to have a look at you.’
‘Okay, but we’d better find those boys and Brenda Dilkes,’ Rachel said as Wesley took his mobile phone from his pocket.
Ten minutes later, as Rachel was being examined by the hotel doctor, news came through that Brenda Dilkes couldn’t be found
in the building.
While Wesley waited in reception, he noticed that Mike Cumberland was watching him, a smile playing on his lips.
‘Fancy a drink while we’re waiting?’ he said with a hint of something else behind the question.
‘Not while I’m on duty, sir,’ Wesley answered formally, staying firmly on his own side of the reception desk.
‘We’re waiting, Robin.’ Gerry Heffernan sat next to Harry Marchbank in the interview room. Just like old times. He wanted
to get the full story before Carrington was hauled back to London – not that it was any of his concern really, but his curiosity
had got the better of him.
‘Okay.’ Robin Carrington hesitated for a few moments, collecting his thoughts. ‘We were short of cash. In debt up to our necks.
Harriet had this idea. If we insured her life
and made it look as though she’d died, then she’d nip off to France and I’d join her as soon as I’d finished this job for
the Smithers family in the USA and the insurance money came through.’
‘And when you left for Devon you didn’t know about the second post-mortem?’
‘Her mother was talking about demanding one but I never thought she’d go through with it.’
‘She needed a bit of persuading but I managed it.’ Marchbank grinned unpleasantly and Carrington stared at him in disbelief.
‘So if you didn’t know we were on to you why did you run when you saw me in Tradmouth?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose I panicked. I had the feeling you’d been suspicious about the fire and you seemed to have it in for
me so when I saw you I decided it was best to lie low.’
‘And this Harriet, your wife, was quite prepared to let her own mother think she was dead?’ Heffernan asked.
‘They’d never got on, not since . . . well, not since she found out her father wasn’t her father. But that’s another story.
And her mother never liked me. The old bitch had to put her oar in, didn’t she?’
Marchbank leaned forward. ‘The second post-mortem found that the victim had been dead before the fire started. If it wasn’t
Harriet, who was it?’
Carrington shifted in his seat nervously. ‘Harriet saw this homeless woman hanging around near our local shops. She used to
beg . . . probably on drugs. Harriet planned it all. She gave this woman money every time she saw her and got chatting to
her. The woman was having trouble with her teeth and Harriet paid for a visit to the dentist – using Harriet’s name. The woman
was around the same age and height as Harriet: she even looked a bit like her and . . . Harriet planned it all. It wasn’t
my idea.’
‘Crap.’ Marchbank banged his fist on the table, earning himself a dirty look from Heffernan. ‘Do you expect us to believe
that?’
‘Go on,’ said Heffernan quietly. Marchbank was behaving as if he was emotionally involved and Heffernan wondered why.
‘She invited the woman for a meal. It was awful. She smelt and . . .’
Heffernan was tempted to observe that perhaps the poor woman hadn’t had his advantages in life but didn’t, not wanting to
interrupt Carrington’s flow. ‘What happened?’ he prompted quietly.
‘Harriet had some stuff from the hospital . . . insulin, I think it was. She injected her and . . . and I arranged it so that
the old wiring would catch fire. We dressed her in Harriet’s clothes, put her watch and jewellery on and put her up in the
bedroom as though she’d collapsed with the smoke. I identified her and because of Harriet’s little act of charity the woman’s
dental records were in Harriet’s name. Harriet was very thorough – she’d thought of everything. The whole thing was her idea.’
Heffernan smiled. How many times had he heard this before? Funny how every crime was somebody else’s idea. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Then it was just a matter of Harriet going straight to France; she set off as soon as she’d done her bit with the insulin
– she didn’t want to risk anybody seeing her when she was supposed to be dead. She got the train to Plymouth and then the
ferry and when she reached France she started looking for a cottage. She promised to let me know as soon as she’d found somewhere
suitable – that’s why she was ringing. While she was seeing to things in France, I was to tie up the loose ends here and finish
the job the Smithers had hired me to do while I waited for the money to come through. Jeremy was dealing with the financial
side. He was going to send me the cheque for the insurance – the house and Harriet’s life. All our debts, all our money problems,
solved in one go. We thought we were in the clear. We thought it couldn’t go wrong.’
‘So you were here in blissful ignorance while all hell was breaking loose in London?’
Carrington nodded.
‘And thanks to your mother-in-law you became a wanted man – for the murder of a woman who was still alive, although you could
hardly use that as a defence, could you? And your mother-in-law could hardly have known that by getting her revenge on you,
she was making sure that her own daughter went to jail for murder.’
‘How could we have known that the old bitch would stir things up?’ Carrington put his head in his hands, defeated. He knew
it was over.
Heffernan looked at Harry Marchbank, who was sitting quite still with what looked like tears brimming in his eyes. ‘So Harriet’s
still alive? She’s okay?’ he said softly.
‘Yes.’
Marchbank stood up and his chair fell backwards, toppling onto the shiny linoleum floor with a loud clatter. He marched out
of the interview room. Heffernan nodded to the constable by the door and followed him out, watching him as he hurried to the
Gents. Heffernan hesitated before pushing the door to the Gents open and stepping inside.
He found Marchbank rinsing his face. It was clear he had been crying and his body was still shaking with sobs. He wiped his
face with a paper towel and looked at Heffernan, shiny mucus still oozing from his nostrils.
Heffernan hesitated. ‘Want to tell me about it?’
Marchbank swung round to face him. ‘Just piss off, Gerry.’
‘You got it wrong.’
‘I thought he’d killed her. How was I to know?’ ‘What difference does it make? You’ve still got your collar.’
Marchbank shook his head and reached for another paper towel to wipe his nose. ‘I should have left well alone.’
‘Why?’
Marchbank looked Heffernan in the eye. ‘Harriet’s mum and I had a fling when I was in London years ago. If you must know Harriet’s
my bloody daughter.’
Heffernan stood staring at him, and felt sorry for Harry Marchbank for the first time in his life. Harry had thought his daughter
was dead and had gone after her killer. And now he had unmasked his own flesh and blood as a murderer.
He watched as Harry Marchbank broke down in tears.
Steve Carstairs wandered into the CID office looking rather lost. He spotted Wesley and hesitated before speaking.
‘I’ve heard Rachel’s gone to hospital. Is it serious?’ For once Carstairs sounded quite concerned.
‘Just mild concussion; she’ll be fine. They’re giving her an X-ray but they’re just being cautious.’
Trish Walton had overheard. ‘Will she be wanting a lift home? She shouldn’t be driving if . . .’
‘Thanks, Trish,’ said Wesley. ‘But I said I’d pick her up. She’s giving me a ring when they’ve finished with her.’
Steve gave Trish a knowing wink which she studiously ignored.
‘Anyone seen Harry Marchbank? I brought his villain in for him and I’ve not seen him since.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Trish under her breath.
‘So what’s been going on? I heard something about the Tradfield Manor Hotel and . . .’
Wesley enlightened him. ‘More stolen Nestec computers have turned up there. We want a word with Sebastian Wilde’s son, Jason,
and a lad called Oliver Kilburn, the son of the hotel’s owner. We reckon they hid them there. And there’s a woman we want
to talk to: she’s called Brenda Dilkes and she works at the hotel.’
Wesley’s speech was interrupted by the arrival of Paul Johnson, who parked his tall, gangling form on a chair next to him.
‘We’ve interviewed the hotel staff, sir, and nobody admits to knowing anything. Oliver Kilburn was seen hanging around near
that storeroom a couple of days ago with Jason Wilde. One of the waiters recognised Wilde;
seems he knew him from way back.’
‘So the son of Nestec’s boss has been found lurking near a pile of computers stolen from his dad’s lorry?’ Wesley grinned
at Johnson. ‘Well done, Paul. I want a word with Mr Wilde Junior as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Johnson looked pleased with himself and scurried off to his desk. Jason Wilde and Oliver Kilburn were pampered
schoolboys used to home comforts. They wouldn’t be too hard to find, and Wesley was inclined to let them stew for a while.
He looked at Steve, who was surrounded by a tall pile of files. Every so often he took a new one and read it with deep concentration.
‘You busy, Steve?’
Steve jumped and immediately looked guilty. ‘Yeah. It’s this Sally Gilbert case. You still holding Mike Battersley?’
‘For the moment.’
‘Harry Marchbank reckoned that Sally Gilbert wasn’t the first person to fall off a cliff around here at this time of year.’
Wesley looked at him enquiringly, not quite getting the point. ‘What do you mean?’
Steve shrugged. He felt foolish and wished he hadn’t mentioned it.
‘What did Marchbank say exactly?’
‘Just that there was another woman who got herself pushed off a cliff at Little Tradmouth a few years back. I don’t remember
much about it ’cause Inspector Jenkins was in charge of the case. The boyfriend did it apparently, but they couldn’t get enough
evidence to charge him. There won’t be any connection.’
Wesley stood for a few seconds, thinking. ‘Possibly not, but I think it’s worth checking.’
Steve stared at him glumly, fearing he had just talked himself into more work.
‘Tell you what, you check it out. And while you’re about it see if there have been any other similar deaths around
here in recent years. It shouldn’t take long to look up on the computer. Okay?’