The Jackal Man (5 page)

Instead of elaborating, as soon as the words had left her mouth she’d changed the subject and began to tell him all about
Sir Frederick’s many expeditions to Egypt. To Neil it sounded as though the great amateur Egyptologist had been a rather hyperactive
man, juggling his business empire with
his passion for all things Egyptian. Neil himself had never been bitten by the Egypt bug, although he had known quite a few
people in the course of his archaeological career who had succumbed.

As Neil pushed his plate away and made appreciative noises, he saw Caroline watching him closely, a slight smile playing on
her lips, like a nurse watching her patient take his first nourishment after a long illness. Perhaps, he thought, he looked
as though he was in need of a good meal. Living on his own, he tended to neglect domestic matters.

‘Was that all right? I made it myself.’

‘Lovely, thanks. Delicious. Look, I need to call someone in London … at the British Museum. They should really assess
all this stuff and …’

Caroline stood up. ‘As a matter of fact someone from the British Museum did contact me just after I wrote to you. He rang
out of the blue saying he’d seen a piece about the castle in the paper and it mentioned Sir Frederick’s collection. He asked
if he could have a look at it.’

Neil’s first reaction was suspicion. ‘So who is he?’

‘Hang on.’ She crossed the room to the dresser and took some scraps of paper from underneath an old bakelite telephone – messages
filed under D for Deal with One Day. ‘Here it is. Dr Andrew Beredace. He works in their Egyptology Department. He sounded
very keen. I said I’d get back to him.’

‘OK. If he’s genuine it might be just what we need.’

Caroline looked alarmed. ‘You don’t think he could be a fraud?’

Neil took pity on her. ‘Tell you what, I’ll call the British Museum later and speak to him myself.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’d better take a look at the rest of the collection now if that’s all right with you,’ he said as he stood up.

‘Of course. That’s why I asked you here.’ She picked up his dish and carried it over to the row of wooden sinks that dominated
one side of the room, a relic from the time when an army of cooks and kitchen maids toiled in this space. The octagonal kitchen
with its vaulted ceiling hadn’t changed much in the intervening years and there was certainly no sign of a dishwasher, although
a large fridge of indeterminate vintage wheezed in a distant corner.

She left the dishes unwashed in the sink and turned to face him. ‘Like I said, the bulk of the stuff ’s upstairs. I’ll show
you the way.’

‘Thanks. That’d be great.’ He hesitated for a moment. There was something he wanted to ask and he hoped she wouldn’t find
his next question too intrusive. ‘Were you close to your uncle?’

She considered the question for a few seconds. ‘I didn’t see him that often but I liked him. He was a lonely man, socially
awkward if you know what I mean. But he was kind: when I was scared of the mummies he used to give them silly names and he
let me try on jewels. He told me they belonged to an Egyptian princess.’ She smiled. ‘And he said the dead couldn’t harm me.
That’s true, isn’t it? Once you’re dead, you’re dead.’

Neil nodded. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t think of donating the collection to a museum.’

‘My uncle George wasn’t a decisive man. He tended to leave things as they were … hence the state of this kitchen. He thought
of the collection as part of the fixtures and fittings so he never considered getting rid of it. My mother always said that
he was even too lazy to find himself a wife.
He ran the estate and took an interest in wildlife and that’s about it.’ She looked Neil in the eye. ‘But I feel an obligation
to make sure this place is looked after. That’s why I hope the National Trust will keep the collection here. Can you understand
that?’

‘Yes. Look, I’d better make a start. Thanks for lunch.’

‘You’re welcome. I’ll show you upstairs.’

He let her walk ahead, out of the kitchen wing and back into the main house. Both parts of the house boasted plain granite
walls which gave the place an austere look. It was only the rich carpets on the floors of the family wing that differentiated
it from below stairs.

‘Sir Frederick’s father, Albert Varley, built the castle – he later became Sir Albert because of the baronetcy,’ Caroline
said as they walked through the wide corridors, lit on one side by tall Gothic windows. ‘He hired the architect Sir Edward
Harding to draw up the plans and he rejected the first lot for not being grand enough.’

She sounded like a tour guide, Neil thought. Maybe she’d end up as one if she decided to remain on the premises when the National
Trust took over the running of the castle. He could see her in that role.

‘Sir Frederick,’ she continued, ‘inherited in 1897. He’d been running the family business long before then, of course, ever
since his father handed over the reins.’

‘Remind me what the family business was,’ Neil asked. Whatever the Varleys had made it must have been lucrative but Neil couldn’t
remember what it was that had brought them their fortune.

‘Pickle. Varley’s Vegetable Pickle.’ She stopped and smiled, as if she could tell what was going through Neil’s mind. ‘How
could a humble pickle manufacturer from Bristol fancy
himself as a mighty medieval baron and build himself a huge castle on Dartmoor, eh? I suppose that was just the Victorian
way. They were hardly lacking in confidence, were they?’

Neil didn’t answer.

‘Anyway, like many wealthy industrialists in those days Sir Albert tried to emulate the life of an aristocrat and he sent
his eldest son on some sort of grand tour. Frederick eventually found himself in Egypt and that’s when his obsession began.
By the time Frederick took over the company it was well established and he was able to leave business matters in the hands
of reliable managers while he indulged his passions and built up his collection. This place is packed with all the stuff great-grandfather
Freddy brought home from Egypt in the latter years of the nineteenth century.’ She hesitated, shooting him an uncertain glance.
‘Did I tell you about Robert Delaware?’

‘No. Who’s Robert Delaware?’

‘He’s writing Freddy’s biography and he’s been coming here on and off for a couple of months now to look through the family
papers. He lives in Tradmouth but I told him he can stay over when he needs to. It’s not as if I haven’t got the room and
it saves him driving all the way back to Tradmouth. No doubt you’ll meet him at some point.’

‘No doubt.’ Neil took a deep breath. All through lunch he’d been longing to ask a question but Caroline had filled the time
with chatter so the opportunity hadn’t really arisen. ‘You mentioned something about your great-uncle murdering four women.’

Caroline stopped in her tracks. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’

‘What happened?’

‘All I know is that four local women were murdered, then
my great-uncle – John, I think his name was – hanged himself in the woods on the estate and the killings stopped.’

‘Was he Sir Frederick’s son?’

‘Yes. I think that’s why I don’t know much. It was all hushed up and it never came to trial. And of course the family never
talked about it.’

She began to walk again, faster this time. Soon they were climbing a grand staircase, seemingly carved out of solid stone.
The winter sun must have come out from behind the clouds because the space was suddenly flooded with light from the tall windows.
As Neil followed he could see clouds of dust particles dancing in the beams. The place probably needed a good clean but he
was sure that the National Trust would see to that when the time came.

He couldn’t get the deaths of those four women out of his mind and the fact that Caroline either couldn’t or wouldn’t go into
detail about them made him even more curious. Her words had started to insinuate their way into his mind like a burrowing
worm and when he got home to his flat he’d see what he could find out on the Internet. But in the meantime he had to show
the flag for the County Archaeological Unit.

They had reached the landing now. It was lined with painted mummy cases standing upright like sentries. He half expected them
to creak open to reveal bandaged mummies who would step out, arms outstretched like in the horror films of his teenage memory.
But they stood still and inscrutable, their painted eyes watching him as Caroline led him to the end of the dimly lit passage.
She stood there for a few seconds before pushing a pair of tall double doors open with a dramatic flourish. The room beyond
the doors was as dark as an impenetrable underground cavern until Caroline
reached inside and flicked on a dim overhead bulb. She stepped to one side and Neil realised that he was meant to enter.
But he suddenly felt reluctant when he saw what was inside.

He had never seen so many dead bodies in one room.

They had an address for Karen Mayer’s ex-boyfriend, Alan Jakes – a maisonette at the edge of the Tradmouth council estate.
But when a patrol car called round there was nobody at home and the neighbours hadn’t seen him for a couple of days.

According to Karen, Jakes worked at a small garage on the outskirts of Tradmouth. It was the sort of establishment often found
underneath railway arches in big cities: but, as Tradmouth was rather short of railway arches, it was situated on a small
industrial estate on the edge of the town.

The officers who went there were told that Jakes was taking a few days off to, as he’d put it, ‘get his head together’, which
had annoyed his boss because he’d already taken a fortnight off in January to go to Florida with his sister.

One of the mechanics had heard that Jakes had been moonlighting, working on boat engines for a mate. The boss wouldn’t be
pleased with this arrangement, the colleague said ominously, and if he found out, Jakes would be lucky to keep his job. From
time to time Jakes had talked about his tempestuous relationship with Karen Mayers and he’d called Karen’s daughter, Clare,
an interfering little bitch who needed ‘sorting out’. His colleagues had found this embarrassing as, like most men, they preferred
to confine the workplace conversation to sport and cars.

At that moment Jakes seemed to be the best suspect they had. But had he attacked Clare? And could he also have
attacked the woman in Neston back in January? A copy of the victim’s statement had been sent over from Neston CID and Wesley
sat at his desk reading it, searching for any similarities to the attack on Clare Mayers. However, for every similarity there
was a thumping great difference. But criminals don’t always work to a set script. Like everyone else, they get sick of the
old routines and try out new ideas.

‘Wesley.’

He looked up. Rachel Tracey was standing there, well wrapped up in a long brown wool coat, complete with gloves and scarf.

‘I’m going to speak to Clare’s friends at Neston Grammar. I’ve been in touch and asked them whether they preferred to be interviewed
this evening at home or after school. They opted for school. They probably want to keep their parents out of it.’

Wesley nodded. The parents would be liable to panic at the reminder that the world was a perilous place for a young woman
on her own. And the last thing an eighteen-year-old girl needs is parents fussing about and clipping her social wings.

‘Want me to come with you?’

‘Might be helpful.’ She tilted her head to one side and gave him what looked like a wink. ‘It’s a girls’ school so they’ll
be falling over themselves to make a good impression.’ When he’d first known Rachel she had been inclined to flirt a little
but she hadn’t done so for a while. It made him feel a little uncomfortable and he looked away.

‘I’d better tell the boss.’

‘For heaven’s sake don’t suggest he comes with us. He’ll do his jolly Uncle Gerry act and that’ll shut them up altogether.’

Wesley knew Rachel was right. He looked into Gerry’s
office and told him where he was going, then darted out to rejoin Rachel before Gerry could offer to tag along.

They drove the eight miles or so to Neston Grammar School for Girls, a fine example of nineteen thirties neoclassical municipal
architecture. It was a quarter to four now: in fifteen minutes the girls would be released, giggling and swaggering their
way down the school drive, hitching up their navy-blue uniform skirts once they were off school property as generations had
done before them.

Rachel checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror before climbing out of the driver’s seat and as they walked towards the
school building, Wesley let her go first.

They were shown straight to the headmistress’s office and found the woman in charge sitting behind a massive desk. She wore
a smart trouser suit and reminded Wesley of some city director, businesslike and efficient.

She shook hands firmly, an expression of concern on her thin face. The girls in question, she said, were under instruction
to report to her office at home time. As they were all over eighteen, there was no need for a parent or member of staff to
act as an appropriate adult, she said, sounding rather disappointed. She went on to enquire about Clare’s progress, each word
carefully chosen so that she breached no guide-lines or policies concerning confidentiality. Wesley answered in official terms.
She had regained consciousness and was out of danger.

The electric school bell rang at four o’clock on the dot, shattering the silence. Then came a rumble like an approaching avalanche
as home-bound footsteps echoed down corridors along with the sound of a thousand chattering female voices, like birds disturbed
in an aviary.

‘Before the girls arrive, Mrs Benson, could you tell me
everything you know about Clare Mayers? Her family circumstances and her relationships with staff and students.’ Wesley tilted
his head to one side expectantly.

‘Clare is an able student, if a little on the lazy side. She is an only child and her mother is divorced. As far as I know
she had lost touch with her biological father.’