‘Did I really see what I just saw, Wes?’ Heffernan asked as they got into the car.
‘Yes. I think she was comforting the distraught widower.’
‘Is that what they call it nowadays? Where to now?’
‘Back to the station. I think we’ve got some phone calls to make.’
Wesley walked into Heffernan’s office and sat down.
‘I’ve just called a local insurance broker who gave me the low-down on these endowment policies. He said that they’re extremely
popular in this country but rare in the United States apparently.’ He smiled at this bit of useless information and hesitated,
gathering his thoughts. ‘Anyway, the broker told me that when people sell their endowment policies before they mature to raise
cash, the life insurance element still applies to the policy’s original owner, not the new one – even when a complete stranger
buys that policy. If the person who originally took out the policy dies, the new owner picks up the loot. The life insurance
is never transferred.’
‘So the rule about not having a financial interest in bumping off a stranger doesn’t apply?’
‘Precisely. Anyone who invests in buying a second-hand endowment policy collects the insurance money if the original owner
dies.’
‘So if the original owner dies shortly after you buy the policy . . .’
‘You’ve hit the jackpot. No paying out the premiums every month to keep the policy going and no waiting for years before you
get your hands on the big pay-out.’
Heffernan sat there for a few seconds taking it in while Wesley made for the door.
All it took was four phone calls. One to Paula Millwright, one to Linda Gibbon, one to Gilda Flemming’s partner and one to
the parents of Marion Bowler. Wesley could feel his hands shaking with excitement as he finished the last call. Some time
before they died all the victims had sold endowment policies through an advert in the local paper. He had found it. The missing
link.
He almost felt like celebrating, inviting the whole team to the pub for a well-earned drink. But he told himself that it was
early days. He had possibly found out why the killer had struck. But he still had no idea who that killer was.
All they had to do now was to track down the advert and find out who had placed it. Surely it wouldn’t be long now.
An hour later Paul Johnson and Trish Walton returned from the offices of the
Tradmouth Echo
with the disappointing news that the advert had been placed by telephone and no individual’s name had been given. However,
the payment had been made by a firm called Chadleigh Holdings.
The CID office was beginning to resemble a call centre. Sixteen police officers sat at their desks in front of computers,
telephone receivers apparently glued to their ears. Chadleigh Holdings had to be traced. If it was a registered company, there
would be a list of directors. If it had a bank account somewhere locally, one of the banks would know. Whoever had placed
the advert had used an accommodation address; a seedy corner newsagent’s in one of Morbay’s less desirable areas. The proprietor
couldn’t remember who had picked up the correspondence – or didn’t want to remember. Presumably the endowment policies themselves
would have been bought with some kind of cheque. Someone somewhere must know who was behind Chadleigh Holdings.
But it was a Friday afternoon and it was getting late. Commerce has an irritating habit of not working police hours, and many
banks had already closed and their staff gone home.
And a call from Colin Bowman only made matters worse. He announced to Gerry Heffernan in jovial tones that the toxicology
report on Brenda Dilkes’s body had just come through from the lab. His initial diagnosis of an overdose of sleeping pills
and alcohol had been understandable in the circumstances as a quantity of pills and an empty bottle had been found beside
Brenda’s bed. Given this fact, Colin had been rather surprised to find that a completely different drug had been discovered
in the body. Someone had replaced the relatively mild sleeping pills that Brenda had been prescribed with something much stronger
and more deadly when taken with alcohol.
Of course, Brenda might have done this herself but it did look suspicious.
And there was always the possibility, Colin added cheerfully, that Brenda Dilkes had been murdered by person or persons unknown.
On the night of the twenty-fourth of July the
Celestina
ran aground near the rocks at Chadleigh Cove shortly before midnight. Joseph Daniel testified to the court that he was roused
by his neighbours and, as they climbed down the steep path to the beach, he could hear screams and desperate cries in the
still night air. There was a light on the cliff top; a lantern tied to a horse to lure the ship to its doom.He saw the broken ship not far from the shore, alive with clambering bodies, ropes tied around their waists for safety: villagers
seeing what pickings they could plunder. Daniel saw a young woman half conscious at the waterline, and he stated that he saw
Jud Kilburn have his pleasure of her before pushing her head beneath the water. But later Daniel himself was attacked. As
he helped himself to a barrel from the wreck, he felt rough hands hauling him round and was stunned by a fist in his face.
Through streaming blood, he recognised his assailant as Isaiah Smithers, the Captain of the ship, who had married the daughter
of Mistress Mercy Iddacombe of Chadleigh Hall. Daniel put up his hands to defend himself, but when no further attack came
he opened his eyes and saw that Smithers had been brought down by Jud Kilburn, who was now directing operations on the shore.
The Captain fought back but Kilburn was the
stronger and Smithers staggered away, collapsing into the water. Kilburn dragged him out, as though trying to save his life,
but the Captain was dead.A short time later the soldiers arrived from Plymouth and Daniel fled, fearing arrest. It was the next day when he heard that
Kilburn had been taken.I am pleased to say that Jud Kilburn, that most wicked of men, who had, like his father before him, led the villagers of Chadleigh
away from the paths of charity and right, paid the price for his crimes on the gallows. But even arrest and imprisonment did
not cure him of his wickedness and focus his thoughts on his fate in the world to come. He perjured himself at his trial,
making wild and wicked accusations against his betters, even under oath. These lies and his lack of remorse ensured that the
law granted him no mercy and a huge crowd cheered as his body jerked at the end of the hangman’s rope.And so I finish this account of the dreadful and wicked crimes of the wreckers of Chadleigh and trust that the innocent will
receive their reward and the guilty their punishment.From
An Account of the Dreadful and Wicked Crimes of the Wreckers of Chadleigh
by the Reverend Octavius Mount, Vicar of Millicombe
Gerry Heffernan asked Wesley to drive him to Gallows House: Sam was expecting a lift home. Wesley agreed. It would give him
space, a chance to think before he returned home to domestic chaos.
When they arrived Sam was waiting for them, sweaty and dishevelled after a day of manual labour. As soon as he climbed into
the back seat of Wesley’s car, his father got out. ‘Just want a word with Carole. Won’t be long.’
‘Are you going to mention Brenda?’ Wesley asked. But the chief inspector was already making for the front door.
Wesley looked at Sam. ‘So what do you think?’
‘What about?’
‘Your dad and . . .?’
‘If he’s happy, I’m happy.’ He hesitated. ‘Although Rosie has different ideas. She reckons it’s insulting to Mum’s memory
but . . . I don’t know. It’s a funny situation.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Still, life must go on, know what I mean?’
Wesley nodded. He knew what Sam meant all right.
Carole Sanders answered the door and led Gerry Heffernan into the drawing room. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked,
sounding almost coy.
‘No thanks, love. I can’t stay long. I’ve got Wes and Sam outside waiting for me.’
The piano lid was open. He walked over and played a small snatch of Chopin. When he turned round he saw surprise on Carole’s
face.
‘Sorry, love. Couldn’t resist it. Lovely piano.’
She didn’t answer.
‘Look, I’m sorry about your brother. I hope . . .’
‘If Sebastian gets himself into trouble that’s his own fault. I know you were just doing your job.’ Her sad smile reassured
him a little. At least that was one problem out of the way.
‘Er . . . I was wondering . . .’ He looked at her. She was standing, head tilted to one side expectantly. Then he suddenly
lost his nerve. ‘Er . . . I just thought I’d better tell you we’re treating Brenda’s death as suspicious. We think someone
might have killed her.’
Carole’s hand went to her mouth. ‘But who’d want to . . .? Are you sure?’
‘Pretty sure. Sorry if it’s come as a shock, like, but . . .’
Carole didn’t seem to be listening. ‘Poor Brenda. Do you have any idea who . . .?’
‘We’ve got our suspicions, love. Don’t you worry. We’ll get him.’
Carole gave a weak smile. ‘I can’t help thinking of little Kayleigh. She’s gone to stay with her grandmother but . . . Poor
Brenda,’ she repeated ‘Why? I know she was a bit . . . well, her lifestyle was a bit free and easy. But who’d want to harm
her?’
Heffernan looked at his watch. ‘I’d better be off. I just thought I’d keep you up to date and . . . er, I wondered . . . would
you like to come out for a drink one evening . . . er . . .?’
Carole smiled. ‘That’d be nice. But aren’t you busy with . . . ?’
His eyes met hers. He felt suddenly flustered and he heard himself saying, ‘Yeah. When things are quieter, eh?’ There was
a moment of awkward silence as he searched for something else to say. ‘Er . . . Sam says your garden’s coming on a treat.’
‘Yes.’
He shifted from foot to foot, feeling he’d made a mess of things and not knowing quite what to do next. ‘I’ll see you soon,
then.’
When Carole had seen him out he almost ran over to the waiting car.
‘Well?’ asked Wesley as he climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Don’t ask, Wes. I didn’t realise I was so out of practice.’
He sat back and caught a glimpse in the side mirror of Sam sprawled in the back seat, grinning.
Wesley was surprised to find a crutch in his hallway when he arrived home that evening, hanging from the banisters as though
its owner had abandoned it after some miraculous cure. Della was around. He took a deep breath before opening the living-room
door.
‘Wesley. Don’t worry, the cavalry’s arrived. I’m giving you two an evening out.’ Della held out her arms, beaming widely,
playing the fairy godmother.
Wesley bent to kiss her. ‘How’s the leg?’
‘Improving. A friend offered to give me a lift here and I thought I’d surprise you and baby-sit . . . give you a night of
freedom. But be back by eleven thirty– that’s when he’s picking me up.’
Wesley had somehow known that Della’s chauffeur would be a ‘he’. There was a noise behind him and he turned round to see Pam
standing in the doorway. She wore trousers and a simple white silk top. She looked good, radiant. Wesley never ceased to be
amazed at the difference between the term-time Pam and the school-holiday Pam.
She put her arms around him and kissed him. He put his hand gently on her swelling abdomen; their growing child. ‘How are
you feeling?’
‘Fine. I thought we could go to that pizza place on the quayside then on to the Tradmouth Arms. Neil’s rung three times asking
if you were home yet. He wants to talk to you. I told him we’d meet him at the pub.’
Wesley had no chance to say anything before Della started shooing them out of the house, as though trying to get rid of them.
‘Go on, you two. I can manage here. Off you go.’
They knew better than to argue. Wesley suspected that Della might use the opportunity for some impromptu entertainment of
gentlemen callers to relieve her boredom – like a teenage baby-sitter inviting her boyfriend round. But Michael was far too
young to have his morals corrupted, so he might as well leave her to it.
Then he remembered something he wanted to tell her. ‘Do you remember that girl who disappeared from your old school – Alexandra
Stanes?’
‘Was it her you found walled up in that room?’ Della asked eagerly.
‘No, far from it. She’s living on the Tradmouth council estate. She ran off with one of the builders who were doing alterations
at the school.’
Della laughed. ‘At least she had the courage to escape, which is more than I ever did. So did you ever find out who it was
in that room?’
‘No. But it seems that the skeleton’s old so we’re not involved officially any more.’ He remembered the other question he
had been longing to ask Della. ‘Do you remember a girl called Carole Wilde? She was Alexandra Stanes’s friend.’
Della screwed up her face in concentration. ‘Carole Wilde – the name rings a bell.’
Wesley looked at Pam. ‘It’s just that she’s living near by. She’s widowed and my boss, Gerry, seems to be taking rather an
interest. His son’s been doing her garden for her.’
‘It’s about time Gerry got himself fixed up. I’ve even thought of taking him on myself,’ Della added mischievously.
‘She’d eat him alive,’ Pam whispered as they made for the front door.
Pam and Wesley passed a pleasant and uneventful hour and a half consuming Pizza Margheritas and garlic bread at the small
Italian restaurant overlooking the river before making for the Tradmouth Arms. Their route took them past St Margaret’s church,
and as they passed the faint sound of the organ and choir seeped through the ancient walls. Wesley thought he could just make
out the tune of ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea’. Gerry Heffernan would be in there practising for next Sunday’s service.
This reminder of his boss set Wesley thinking about Carole Sanders. She seemed a nice woman, from the little he’d seen of
her, and, according to Gerry, her brother’s arrest for the Nestec robbery hadn’t affected her attitude towards the police
in general and Gerry in particular. Sam was still working on her garden and all could be right with Gerry’s world – if he
could get his act together and find the courage to ask the lady out.
He glanced at Pam. She was wearing a plain silver chain
around her neck; he recognised it as one she’d had for years, since their student days. Kayleigh Dilkes’s gift would have
looked better. But it had belonged to Sally Gilbert and hadn’t been Kayleigh’s to give. Once again he found himself wondering
how Brenda had got hold of it. Had she stolen it from the hotel? Had she been given it as she had claimed? By Jason Wilde
or the Iddacombes? Or by Robin Carrington?
But then, if the theory about the cliff-top killings held water, taking Sally’s necklace was a stupid mistake for the killer
to have made. Careless when the killer had gone to such lengths to be careful. Brenda could have answered his question. But
Brenda was dead – possibly murdered. Which was significant in itself.
As they entered the Tradmouth Arms, Wesley forced himself to forget about work, telling himself that there was more to life.
He spotted Neil waiting for them in the corner of the dimly lit bar. He had his feet up on a stool as he sipped his pint –
the picture of relaxation. For a moment Wesley envied him.
Pam sat down beside him and Neil looked at her appreciatively. ‘You look nice. Mine’s a pint, Wes.’
When Wesley returned with the drinks Neil and Pam were deep in conversation, their heads bent together over something, whispering.
Wesley almost felt as though he was intruding until Neil looked up and grinned.
‘We’re looking at that book Robin Carrington lent me.’
‘I don’t know how you’re going to get it back to him. They took him back to London today.’
‘Poor sod.’
‘He murdered a woman for the insurance money then he burned down a house.’ This sort of automatic liberal sympathy for the
criminal always irritated Wesley: there might be a few wrongdoers who deserved it but Robin Carrington wasn’t one of them
– even though, against his better judgement, he had found himself liking the man.
‘I thought it was his wife who did the dirty deed,’ said
Neil, amused at his friend’s prickly response.
Wesley didn’t reply.
‘Want to know what I’ve found out about the Chadleigh wreckers?’ Neil asked.
‘And what have you found out?’
‘There was a man called Jud Kilburn who organised the villagers of Chadleigh to plunder ships that were wrecked on the coast.
And he made sure of a steady supply of wrecks by luring ships onto the rocks.’
‘Everyone knows that things like that went on in the West Country. I read about a family of wreckers up in North Devon near
Clovelly who were supposed to have pickled and eaten their victims.’
Pam pulled a face.
‘Well, I don’t think Jud Kilburn went that far. But he stood trial for murder, robbery and rape amongst other things.’
‘Was he found guilty?’ Pam asked.
‘Oh yes. He was hanged at Exeter in 1772. It was said that he plundered over a hundred ships, although that might have been
an exaggeration. But it says in this book that he made accusations against other people, implying that someone influential
was behind it all. He said he was only obeying orders.’
‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he,’ Pam said dismissively, before draining her glass of mineral water. She was longing
for something alcoholic but her condition forbade it.
‘Was this Jud Kilburn any relation to our dear friend Dominic Kilburn?’ Wesley asked.
‘I shouldn’t be surprised. They seem to have a lot in common. Anyway, I went to Exeter to look up the court records of the
time to see exactly what he said at his trial.’ He paused.
‘Go on,’ said Pam, eager to hear more.
‘When I first read it, I assumed that he was just desperate to put the blame on someone else – you know, just throwing accusations
around. But then I thought about
the skeleton in Chadleigh Hall . . .’
‘You think the skeleton has something to do with the wreckers?’
Neil leaned forward. ‘Now you’ve got to imagine you’re back in 1772. You live in the village of Chadleigh. There’s the usual
set-up: the parson and the squire – only the parson lives in Millicombe and nobody takes too much notice of him and the squire
lives up in the big house and in a different world. No, the main man in the village is the blacksmith, Jud Kilburn. He’s the
one who leads everyone down to the shore when there’s a wreck – he even makes sure there’s a steady supply of wrecks to keep
the village in comfort. You’ve seen him rape women who are washed ashore alive; you’ve seen him rob; you’ve seen him slit
sailors’ throats and cut people’s fingers off to get at rings. You don’t argue with Jud Kilburn: you know what he’s capable
of.’