by Kate Ellis
She guessed the wine had been drugged. What was more there was no sign of her phone – or of Dale.
53
Wesley picked up a car and drove to Strangefields Farm. As soon as he reached the gate Gerry rang, asking where he was.
‘Strangefields Farm. I want to ask whether anyone’s seen Grace. I’m worried about her.’
‘Traffic’s just told me their cameras spotted her car on the main road out of Tradmouth soon after she called you.’
‘Near the turnoff for Dead Man’s Lane?’
‘Not far away.’ He paused. ‘If our body is Dale Keyes and she was shacked up with him it doesn’t bode well.’
Gerry’s words echoed Wesley’s fears but he tried to focus and told the boss about Ossie Phillips’ statement. ‘He thinks Bert recognised someone on the ferry – someone who made him decide to stay on rather than getting off at Queenswear as planned.’
‘He didn’t tell Danny Brice who it was?’
‘No, but when Danny got back from his visit to the toilet he thought something had upset him. Perhaps Bert knew something about this mystery person and he was killed to stop him talking.’
‘There is another possibility we keep ignoring, Wes. If Jonathan Kilin punched Bert there might have been more to it than a simple argument about a detention. You hear so much about child abuse these days. Maybe Kilin had a good reason for doing what he did and if Bert had done it to others, there might be plenty around who’d be out for revenge. Perhaps it was one of his victims he saw on the ferry.’
Wesley thought for a while before answering. ‘There was never the remotest suggestion that Bert was like that. I’ve spoken to one of his colleagues and if there’d been any suspicions at the time it would surely have got around.’
Gerry’s suggestion made him feel uncomfortable because it didn’t seem to fit with the Bert he’d heard about, although he knew some abusers were cunning enough to present an innocent face to the unsuspecting world so it wasn’t something he could rule out entirely.
He parked on the pitted drive near where the archaeologists were working, some standing around with clipboards recording measurements and taking pictures while others worked inside the trenches, deep in concentration. He guessed they were in the process of lifting the skeleton and he couldn’t resist going over to watch. Neil was supervising proceedings and as soon as he saw Wesley he beckoned him over to stand by his side and look down at the bones.
‘You’ll dine out on this in archaeological circles,’ said Wesley.
‘True,’ said Neil smugly. ‘Look at the size of that stone they put on the abdomen to weigh the body down. Someone was determined he wouldn’t get up again.’
‘Have you found out who saw Grace?’
He turned and called over to a dark-haired young woman with a clipboard. ‘You saw the architect, didn’t you, Sally?’
Sally looked up from her work. ‘It was this morning – around ten thirty. I saw her car belting up the lane.’ She suddenly looked less sure of herself. ‘At least it looked like hers but I can’t be absolutely sure. It was going so fast.’
Wesley thanked her before driving up to the house. Sally might have been mistaken, or perhaps Grace had been making a flying visit and was long gone. After asking the builders if they’d seen her and receiving a negative reply, he had a quick look in the outbuildings where he found nothing apart from rusty farm machinery and rubbish.
As he drove out of the gates the weak sun emerged from behind the clouds and when he was halfway down the lane he received a call from the station to tell him that Jonathan Kilin’s parents had been contacted and were expecting him to call that afternoon. He experienced a sudden rush of optimism. It was time they had some luck. Jonathan Kilin might have nothing to do with the case but his instincts told him that Kilin’s history with Bert Cummings had to make him a suspect. And he was still wondering whether Kilin, the young art lover, might have changed his identity to become Jonny Sykes. If anybody knew what had become of him it would surely be his family.
He returned to the CID office and was pleased to find the copy of the diary from the evidence store he’d requested earlier lying on top of his computer. After eating a quick sandwich at his desk he stuffed the diary into his pocket and set out for Modbury at two thirty, taking Rachel with him. He asked her to drive because he wanted to read the copy of the little 1685 diary on the way, realising it might be the only chance he’d get. Linda Payne had considered it important enough to store carefully in its own file. Besides, he thought a complete change of focus might clear his head.
He deciphered the ancient handwriting, realising with growing excitement that the story appeared to be a continuation of the one told in Neil’s 1666 version and something, perhaps a faint echo of the events described in the diary, triggered a flicker of recognition at the back of his mind. But they were nearing their destination so he put the copy of the diary on the back seat. At that moment history wasn’t his priority.
‘How are the wedding plans going?’ he asked as they reached the outskirts of Modbury, breaking the amicable silence. Over the past few days Rachel had hardly mentioned her forthcoming nuptials, not even to bemoan her lack of flowers, and he felt the need to take his mind off the nagging worry that was increasing with each passing moment.
‘With Jen deciding to go AWOL I’ve had to find another florist in Neston. More expensive than Linda but … Maybe the boss was right. What would it really matter if I carried a bouquet from the supermarket? Who’d really notice … or care?’
‘Quite right. The day’s about you and Nigel.’
She fell silent, concentrating on the road ahead.
Then she spoke again. ‘I’m still a bit worried about Jen.’
‘She told you she was going away – and after what happened to Linda I can’t say I blame her.’
There was another silence. Then he spoke again, thinking aloud.
‘Dale Keyes had an employee – a woman – who cleared out his company’s bank account. He let everyone believe he was dead to escape his creditors.’ He paused. ‘Including my friend Grace.’
A sceptical smile appeared on Rachel’s face. ‘Friend?’
Wesley felt his face burning. ‘We’ve known each other since we were kids and her connection with Dale Keyes worries me. If he was involved in something and he told her about it – or if she witnessed something she shouldn’t … ’
He didn’t tell her that all sorts of dreadful scenarios were flashing through his head: Grace’s lifeless body being found at low tide on the river bank; Grace trapped somewhere by Linda Payne’s killer. He tried to put it out of his mind but he couldn’t. He was on his way to Modbury on what could be a wild goose chase while he could have been searching for her and he felt helpless.
They arrived at the Kilins’ address just after three and when Rachel rang the bell the door opened almost immediately to reveal a man in his forties. He was tall and athletic with fair hair, jeans and a collarless shirt. His face was pleasant with even features and grey eyes. He reminded Wesley of someone but he couldn’t think who.
The man held out his right hand. ‘Chris Kilin. I had the day off work so I thought I’d come and keep my parents company.’ There was a hint of criticism behind his words, as if he suspected they’d come to give the Kilins a hard time. Wesley knew it would be up to him to convince him otherwise.
Chris led them into a light, spacious living room where an elderly couple sat like bookends at either end of a large leather sofa. The man rose when he saw Rachel, a gesture of old-fashioned chivalry, and shook hands with both of them as they introduced themselves.
‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ Chris said before hurrying out of the room with a backward glance, as though to make sure his parents were comfortable.
‘We’re sorry to bother you, Mr and Mrs Kilin,’ Wesley began.
‘Ken and Emma, please.’
Wesley smiled. The use of first names was a good sign. ‘I’m Wesley and this is Rachel.
You were told we’re from Tradmouth. You lived near there once, I believe?’
‘Barnton – a small village a couple of miles outside.’
‘I know it,’ said Rachel.
‘A friend of my mother-in-law remembers you taking the photographs at her daughter’s wedding,’ said Wesley.
‘I’ve taken so many wedding pictures in my time, they all blend into one, I’m afraid.’ He looked as though this was a cause for genuine regret.
His wife meanwhile was looking increasingly nervous as she fidgeted with the neckline of her sweater and Wesley gave her a reassuring smile. ‘We’re sorry to intrude like this but we’re investigating the murder of a former teacher at Fulton Grange School. I believe your sons were pupils there.’
‘Only our eldest, Jonathan. Chris went to Tradmouth Comprehensive.’
‘Why was that?’ Rachel asked.
There was a long silence and Wesley suspected the subject was a sensitive one. To his surprise it was Emma Kilin who answered.
‘Jonathan was a difficult child, Inspector. We thought the more sheltered atmosphere of a private school would suit him better whereas Chris … well, Chris was an easygoing boy who’d thrive anywhere. However, it turned out to be the wrong decision. Jonathan hated the school and made a lot of trouble.’
‘He punched a teacher.’
‘His maths teacher had put him in detention when he wanted to go to an after-school art class. Art had become an obsession, you see – it was something we used to argue about constantly. He was very bright and we thought he should concentrate on all his school subjects, not just art. On this occasion he lost his temper and lashed out at Mr Cummings. We were devastated of course and we felt we had no alternative but to remove him from the school.’
‘You sent him to Tradmouth to be with his brother?’
She shook her head. ‘We tried to home school him for a while but that didn’t work out so we moved away. By that time he’d lost all interest in school and he was determined to become an artist. He had a high IQ but he was troubled.’
‘Did you seek help?’
‘I’m sure people would these days but back then we saw it as our failure, although in contrast Chris has always been the easiest of sons. He’s married with three little ones and he’s an IT manager. How could two boys brought up in the same way be so different?’
‘It’s a mystery, but it happens.’ said Wesley. ‘You’ll have heard about Mr Cummings’ murder.’
She gave a little nod. ‘Of course. It’s a terrible thing to have happened. But surely you can’t think it’s anything to do with Jonathan.’ She sounded worried, eager to leap to the defence of her lost son.
‘We have to follow every lead, Mrs Kilin – Emma. I’m sorry.’
‘When did you last see Jonathan?’ Rachel asked.
At that moment Chris entered the room with a tray of steaming mugs and he spoke before his parents could reply.
‘We haven’t seen him since he left home. That was nineteen ninety-five – almost twenty-five years ago.’
‘He said he was going and didn’t want anything more to do with us,’ Ken Kilin said sadly. ‘He said someone he knew was setting up some sort of studio and that’s where he was going.’
‘What was this person’s name?’
‘I don’t know. Jonathan wasn’t one for bringing friends home.’
‘Was it someone he knew from Fulton Grange?’
‘He never said. He rarely spoke to us.’
‘You don’t know what happened to him?’
‘Don’t think we didn’t try to find out,’ said Emma. ‘We made every effort to look for him but it was as though he’d vanished off the face of the earth. We even hired a private detective, didn’t we, Ken?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Wesley. To this couple their son’s rejection of them must have seemed like a bereavement.
‘He was such a bright boy. He could have had a brilliant future ahead of him.’
‘In art?’
‘Not only art. I think the whole art thing was just his way of defying us. He had a scientific brain too and he was very good at maths. I think that’s why he resented Mr Cummings. Before the … incident he’d told Jonathan off for messing about in a maths lesson and put him in detention, but Jonathan only did it because the others couldn’t keep up with him and he was bored. Jonathan never liked being made a show of.’
‘Have you ever heard the name Jackson Temples?’
‘He was that serial killer,’ said Ken Kilin.
‘He had a studio in a farmhouse he’d inherited outside Tradmouth. Could he have been the person Jonathan went to work with?’
The Kilins looked at each other.
‘There was no mention of Jonathan’s name in the newspapers. If he’d been there surely … ’
‘Could he have changed his name?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Chris. ‘He told me once that he wanted to go away and become a different person.’
‘Could he have used the name Jonny Sykes?’
There was a long silence. Then Chris spoke again. ‘When I was reading Oliver Twist for English one day he told me Bill Sykes was his favourite character – he liked the scene where he killed Nancy.’
Wesley could see the pain on the parents’ faces and Chris had seen it as well because he said, ‘I’m sorry. We can’t cover up for him any more.’
Ken nodded sadly. ‘I don’t know where we went wrong.’
‘You probably didn’t,’ said Wesley, looking at Chris.
‘Would you have a look at these pictures and tell us if you recognise anyone?’ said Rachel, taking a sheaf of photographs from the file she’d brought in and handing them to Ken.
Ken sifted through them, passing them to his wife, but when he came to one he froze. Emma was leaning over to see the picture and he heard her gasp.
‘This is him. This is Jonathan. I’m sure of it.’
‘He’s changed after more than twenty years but Emma’s right. This is definitely him.’
Ken handed the picture back to Wesley and when he showed Rachel her eyes widened in surprise.
‘He’s using the name Joe Hamer now and he’s a property developer building a luxury holiday village just outside Tradmouth. He appears to have made a success of his life if that’s any consolation.’
‘Hamer was my maiden name.’ A sad smile appeared on Emma Kilin’s lips. ‘I never expected him to follow that particular path but as long as he’s happy … ’
‘That’s all anyone can wish for their children,’ said Wesley.
He looked at Chris and saw his face had clouded. ‘I can’t get over that he’s been doing all this but hasn’t bothered contacting us to let us know he’s all right. In a way this makes everything worse.’
Ken Kilin was still sorting through the photographs, refusing to meet his son’s eye. Wesley saw him stop and stare at one of the pictures, then at another. Eventually he spoke, holding one of the photographs up for Wesley to see. ‘I recognise her. She was at Fulton Grange. Striking girl.’
‘Her name’s Roberta. Was she friendly with Jonathan?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. I remember her because she was in a school production of The Tempest we went to see. She played Miranda, and I remember taking her photograph for the local newspaper. She was a cheeky little madam as I recall.’
Wesley held out his hand for the pictures, assuming Kilin had finished. Instead he passed them to his wife. She too flicked through them and when she came to one she frowned.
‘Someone you recognise?’
‘I don’t know. I thought this one looked familiar – but different somehow.’ She shook her head. ‘I think I must be mistaken.’
When she passed the picture to Wesley he said she was right. She was mistaken.
54
Grace was desperate to pee but she couldn’t move and even though she’d tried her best to work the rope that bound her hands free it was tied so tightly that the knots hadn’t budged. Her head
ached from the drugged wine and tears pricked her eyes, hot and uncomfortable. She’d always hated confined spaces and she was struggling to breathe in the fetid air that smelled of bird droppings and worse. The soft cooing of pigeons in the rafters above her sounded smug, almost mocking.
She’d made some mistakes in her life but this was the worst of them. This was Devon, a county of fields, woods and open spaces, and there was nobody out there to hear her scream. She began to mouth the words of a prayer from her childhood, one she’d recited with Wesley at Sunday school. Then she screamed anyway. At least she could tell herself she’d tried.
On the way back Wesley said they should stop at Strangefields Farm and Rachel agreed with him. They could bring Gerry up to date with developments later.
As Rachel drove up the potholed drive he battled the temptation to see how things were progressing at Neil’s dig; but some things were more urgent. When they arrived at the house he came across Glen Crowther. He looked sheepish at first but once he learned that they weren’t there to see him he directed them to the great hall with the eagerness of a party host who was keen to impress.
Once there they found Joe Hamer leaning over a set of plans laid out on a trestle table with a pen in one hand and a phone in the other. He was talking to someone and he didn’t sound happy.
The pen hand hovered over a notebook and he was drawing frantically, making rapid marks, unconsciously creating human forms. Wesley could see life and movement in his doodles, the work of a talented artist.
‘She said she was going back to her London office but you’re saying you haven’t seen her,’ he barked down the phone. ‘This isn’t good enough. There are things here that need sorting out.’
Wesley stood listening for a few moments, certain he was talking about Grace. He had a sudden desire to leap to her defence except he knew that if Hamer thought she’d been unprofessional, then he had every right to complain.