The Shadow Collector (22 page)

In the absence of a working doorbell, Wesley rapped on the front door and waited. Rachel stood a little behind him and when
a slow-moving shadow appeared behind the frosted glass, she gave him a gentle nudge.

The door opened a fraction and Wesley, knowing that a lone woman often feels more at ease with someone of her own sex, left
it to Rachel to make the introductions. The tactic worked because the door opened wider to reveal a small woman, almost as
wide as she was tall. Her folds of fat were swathed in a shapeless grey garment which could have been a cardigan worn over
a calf-length navy skirt. The clothes were stained and Wesley tried hard not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of unwashed
flesh. The face above the cascade of chins seemed small, like a doll’s, and her hair had been scraped back brutally into a
steel-grey pony tail. She waddled slowly ahead of them into the front room and Wesley paused by the door. As his eyes adjusted
to the gloom he could see piles of newspapers stacked up around the room like grey pillars reaching almost to the ceiling.
There were a few lumpy shapes which may or may not have been furniture but he could make out the shape of a sofa near the
window, masked by a cover of newsprint.

‘You collect newspapers, Ms Parry,’ he said. He was stating the obvious but he couldn’t think up a more suitable opening line.
‘It is Ms Parry, isn’t it? Not Trelisip?’

She ignored the question. ‘My Joanne’s been in the papers. She’s famous.’

Wesley caught Rachel’s eye and saw pity there. He looked at the stacked papers and saw that tabloids were mixed with broadsheets;
the
Sun
, the
Star
, the
Mail
, the
Express
, the
Telegraph
,
The Times
and
The Guardian
making
strange bedfellows. He thought the stacks didn’t look particularly safe so he reached out a tentative hand towards one of
the pale grey pillars to check its stability. But as soon as he did so the woman screamed at him not to touch and he withdrew
his hand rapidly as if he’d touched a burning surface.

‘Did you buy all these papers?’ he asked.

She shook her head and perched precariously on the edge of a side table littered with empty fizzy drinks cans and fast-food
wrappers. ‘People leave them and I collect them because my Joanne might be in them.’ She folded her arms proudly. ‘She’s famous
is my Joanne … been in all the papers.’

Normally at this stage, he’d suggest they all sat down, maybe with a cup of tea, but there was nowhere to sit so he gave Rachel
a small nod.

They’d worked together so often before that she understood the signal right away. ‘We’re sorry to disturb you, Ms Parry, but
we need to ask a few questions.’

The woman’s small eyes lit up. ‘My Joanne. You’ve found her.’

‘I’m afraid not. But the woman who was convicted of her murder has disappeared and we’re trying to find out where she is.’

‘I haven’t seen her. I don’t go out after dark. Bad things happen if you go out after dark.’ She recited the words like a
mantra; a spell to keep her from harm. Her fists were clenched so tight that they must have hurt and the sight of a trickle
of water snaking down each cheek made Wesley feel like a brute.

‘Did you know Lilith Benley had been released from prison?’ Rachel asked.

She shook her head so vigorously that a small snowstorm of dandruff landed on her shoulders. The tears were streaming now
and her nose was dripping mucus. She wiped it on her sleeve.

‘Normally you’d have been notified but as you’ve changed your name …’

‘They should have hung her,’ she hissed. ‘Put her on the gallows with a rope around her neck. She should have done the hangman’s
dance like the witch she is.’ She stood up and shuffled towards them, flapping her arms as if she was shooing birds away.
‘Get out. If you’ve not come to tell me my Joanne’s coming back you can get out.’

‘Coming back?’ Wesley asked, taking a step towards the door.

‘The dead walk, don’t they? If you look hard enough you can find them.’

She sank painfully to the floor, her knees cracking, and began to sort through some of the papers that were strewn there.
As she turned the pages, concentrating hard, Wesley knew they’d lost her.

Rachel didn’t say much on the return journey, only that she hoped Social Services were on Joanne’s mother’s case. Wesley had
assured her that they were … adding that her social worker’s brother had been at school with Joanne and Gabby. Rather than
looking impressed by his inside knowledge, Rachel had seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts.

Gerry greeted them on their return to the incident room, eager to find out how they’d got on. Wesley told him about Ms Parry
and her collection of newspapers, adding that he didn’t think she was capable of travelling to West Fretham,
let alone evading the TV people and killing Boo Flecker or abducting Lilith Benley.

Gerry sighed and said that if she wasn’t a suspect they’d have to forget about her and move on to more pressing matters. They
had an imminent meeting with another bereaved mother. Boo Flecker’s mother had caught the early train down to Morbay from
her home in Yorkshire and she was due to arrive in half an hour.

Rachel went off to meet Mrs Flecker at Morbay Station and an hour later she called to say that she’d taken her to the Tradmouth
Castle Hotel for lunch. Wesley was glad she’d used her initiative. A Spartan interview room at Tradmouth police station was
hardly a suitable place for a grieving relative. He promised they’d join her as soon as they could.

At one o’clock Gerry suggested they kill two birds with one stone and grab a bar meal at the hotel. They drove to Tradmouth
through a veil of rain, sitting in silence as they headed down the steep hill towards the river in third gear. The rain had
stopped and the sun was peeping from behind the clouds, sending rays of light down onto the water. After parking by the police
station they walked to the old hotel overlooking the boat float and found Rachel in the Schooner Bar sitting at a table for
four by the window. Opposite her sat an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman who was sipping coffee from a small white cup.

Rachel made the introductions and Mrs Flecker shook their hands limply.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Wesley said.

Mrs Flecker nodded in acknowledgement. There was a serene quality about her with her immaculately made-up face and her sandy
hair caught up in an elegant chignon.
‘I’m only sorry if you’ve had problems contacting me. I’ve been away visiting a friend. I only got back yesterday and … and
found the local police have been trying to get hold of me.’ She took out a small white handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
‘I’m afraid it hasn’t really sunk in yet. I didn’t see that much of Boo because she had her own life in London – but we did
speak on the phone quite often.’

‘When did you last speak to her?’ Wesley asked gently.

‘Sunday night. She said she was staying at a B and B on a farm. I think she found the contrast to London amusing.’ She broke
off and bowed her head.

‘What did she say when she called you?’ Wesley asked.

She looked up, a businesslike expression on her face. But Wesley could see the film of half-formed tears in her eyes. ‘She
chatted about this and that like she usually did. And she seemed …’ She searched for the word. ‘Excited … almost as if she
was high on something. Not that she was … I didn’t mean to imply …’

‘Of course. Did she say what she was excited about?’

‘What was Boo usually excited about?’ She gave a fond smile. ‘Work. It was always work with her. A new lead. An exclusive
story. I always joked that she should have joined the police. Not that she’d have fitted in. She never did things by the book.
She just loved the thrill of the chase. She said it was what she lived for. The buzz, she called it.’

‘Did she say anything about the story she was working on?’ Wesley held his breath, telling himself that it was probably too
much to hope that her mother might hold the key to the whole thing. But hoping all the same. He glanced at Gerry and saw that
he was leaning forward, breath held, awaiting a revelation.

‘I remember she said something about a Mr Big. I
presumed it was some criminal so I told her to be careful. She just laughed. But that’s what she was like. Fearless. Always
was, even as a child.’

‘Is this connected to what she was doing down here?’

She sighed. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. She talked about so many things, I found it hard to keep up.’

‘Did she mention Rupert Raybourn?’ Gerry asked.

‘She did say something about Raybourn and a rent boy but then she said she’d moved on to something else. Said Raybourn was
yesterday’s news.’

‘Anything else you can tell us?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. Can I see her?’

‘Of course,’ said Rachel, touching the woman’s arm gently. ‘I’ll take you there when you’re ready.’

Mrs Flecker nodded her thanks.

‘Want anything to eat, love?’ Gerry said. ‘You should keep your strength up, you know.’

Wesley had half expected her to refuse but instead she nodded. ‘That’d be nice. I’ll have a sandwich. It’s strange, I almost
forgot I was hungry.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable,’ said Wesley. Rachel took the orders and went to the bar, leaving the three of them sitting
in silence for a few moments. Then Wesley spoke again. ‘Did Boo ever mention a woman called Lilith Benley? She was convicted
of killing two teenage girls eighteen years ago and she’s recently been released from prison. Boo had cuttings about the case
in her room at the B and B where she was staying.’

‘I don’t recall her saying anything about it.’

Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Did she mention Zac James at all?’

‘Isn’t he a pop singer?’

‘That’s right,’ said Gerry. ‘Only he’s getting a bit past his sell-by date now. He was taking part in the reality TV show
with Rupert Raybourn. It was being filmed on the farm where your daughter was found. I just wondered if …’

‘If either of them had a secret they didn’t want her to uncover? Surely people don’t kill just because some journalist threatens
to wash their dirty linen in public.’

‘Depends how dirty that linen is,’ said Gerry.

‘Did she mention anyone else she’d met down here?’ Wesley asked gently.

She thought for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. She did chatter on and I suppose I was only half listening because I had a lot on my
mind. I’m sorry. If I’d known it was important …’

‘Don’t worry.

‘I’m annoyed with myself. I should have paid more attention. But over the years I got used to her being excited about her
work.’ She hesitated. ‘Actually she texted me on Monday evening. She sometimes did, you know, when she was onto a new story.’

Wesley leaned forward. ‘What did she say?’

Mrs Flecker took a small pink mobile phone out of her handbag, selected a message and passed it to him. He read the message.

Three words.
BIG story. Explosive
.

Written by Alison Hadness, September 21st 1643

William drank my infusion this morning and he has taken to his bed with a fever. I must watch him well. Perhaps he will require
more physic
.

I went into the town with Dorcas and tried to purchase food but there was little to be had. The miller is charging heavily
for bad flour. How some delight in profiting from misfortune
.

They say Mistress Goodley is taken with wild babbling and visions and there is talk of witchcraft
.

Last night Elizabeth threatened to tell her father that the evil doll was mine rather than confess her wickedness. She spoke
wildly that I did bewitch her father and how she hates me more than any other creature on God’s earth. Jennet Rudd was taken
with spasms, her body jerking and cold as ice. She has been much with Elizabeth so it may be that I am not the only object
of her spells
.

While I walked back from the town with Dorcas I saw a young man who looked most like Thomas. But I know I was mistaken
.
Perhaps my present troubles with Elizabeth have brought him to my mind again
.

William is too sick to make demands on me for which I am thankful
.

As soon as they left the hotel, Gerry headed for the police station to bring Chief Superintendent Nutter up to date with developments
while Wesley made for the hospital to spread a bit of cheer in Neil’s direction. Not that he felt particularly cheerful after
his meeting with Mrs Flecker. The woman’s dignity impressed him but he was still glad it was Rachel rather than him who was
taking her to the mortuary.

He found Neil sitting up in bed fidgeting with the bedclothes. There was a thin hardback book lying in front of him on the
blue hospital cover, his place marked with a scrap of paper. It was a study of Civil War defences. He didn’t intend to lose
touch with his excavation during his period of enforced leisure.

‘If I stay in this place much longer I’ll go berserk,’ he said. ‘You sure it’s okay for me to stay at your place when they
let me out?’

‘Of course. It’s the least we can do.’

‘I’ll be able to walk on crutches and Dave’s promised to pick me up to take me up to the dig every day.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll
be there in a purely supervisory capacity before you ask, lording it over everyone in my chair and issuing my orders. Any
idea who cut my brake pipes yet?’

‘Neston are handling the case but they haven’t made much progress. They took statements from the Mumfords and the builders
but now it turns out it could have been done earlier that day … maybe even in Exeter.’

Neil hauled himself further up on his pillows. ‘Evan Mumford drives a Mini. New yellow Cooper S with a black roof. What if
someone had it in for him and got mine by mistake?’

Wesley was tempted to laugh, to point out that nobody could mistake the two vehicles, one brand new and flashy, the other
old and disreputable. But he said nothing.

‘I take it you’ve given them a statement?’

‘Some twelve-year-old plod came and wrote it all down. She was rather sweet,’ he added wistfully. ‘I’ve got to find out about
those creepy wax dolls. Is yours still safe, by the way?’

‘Pam wouldn’t have it in the house so I put it in the garden shed.’

Neil looked mildly alarmed. ‘You sure it’s OK in there? It won’t get damaged?’

‘It’s been stuffed behind panelling in a semi-derelict house for the best part of four hundred years so I don’t think a week
in my shed will do it any harm.’

‘Harriet reckons it’s cursed.’

‘You seem to be getting very cosy with Harriet.’

‘Are you going to question her husband about my accident?’

Wesley raised his eyebrows. ‘Just how close have you two been getting?’

‘Don’t be disgusting,’ Neil said with a sly grin.

Wesley knew his instincts were right … and his old friend had form for short-term and ill-thought-out dalliances.

Before Wesley left, Neil extracted a promise that he would bring the little coffin and its dreadful contents into the hospital
the next day so that Neil could examine it. Wesley didn’t know how the staff would react if they saw it
but, as it would be Sunday, the hospital would be quiet and, hopefully, nobody would notice.

He walked back to the police station and as soon as he reached the CID office his phone began to ring. The caller display
told him it was Mark and a sudden feeling of dread clutched at his stomach. What if it was Maritia? What if something bad
had happened and the baby had come too early?

But as soon as he heard Mark’s voice his mind was put at rest. He sounded his usual self, calmly enthusiastic. ‘I’ve been
asking around. One of my churchwardens has a cousin who knew Lilith Benley and her mother quite well. Her name’s Selina Chester
and she owns a shop in Neston. She might be able to help you with the witchcraft angle too. She’s a Wicca priestess.’

This new lead sounded promising. It would also be useful to talk to someone who actually knew the Benleys, someone who could
separate the reality from the legend. And, it was always possible that Lilith had taken refuge with an old friend.

Mark went on to recite Selina’s address. A shop down a little passage that branched off Neston’s main shopping street, not
far from the concrete and glass Municipal offices that looked so out of place in the small, Elizabethan town. If he drove
over to Neston now, he could have a chat with Selina, pop into the police station to learn how the investigation into Neil’s
accident was progressing and maybe even have another word with DS Geoff Gaulter while he was at it. Nobody could accuse him
of not making efficient use of police time.

He was about to leave when he saw Tom from Scientific Support bearing down on him, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.

‘I’ve been examining Boo Flecker’s laptop,’ Tom began. ‘The only recent e-mails that stand out as unusual are to various schools
asking if a Giles Parsons had been a pupil. One of them replied in the affirmative. Welson Hall. It’s a minor public school
in Buckinghamshire. It’s got a website,’ he added enthusiastically. ‘The school replied, confirming that Parsons had been
a pupil but they said they were unable to give out any more information.’

‘Anything else?’

‘She’d been trawling through the Internet for information on that comedian, Rupert Raybourn, and a man called Carl Cramer
who was also some sort of entertainer. And the day before she died she’d been looking up lots of stuff on the Benley case.’

Tom left Wesley with the information and took his leave. Wesley brought up Welson Hall School’s website on his own computer
but it wasn’t much help. All smiling, shiny-faced youth and modern sports facilities. Not the sort of thing he’d imagined
would interest Boo Flecker.

He knew Gerry would be closeted with the Chief Superintendent for quite some time so he didn’t bother leaving a message. Instead
he retrieved the damaged book found at Lilith Benley’s cottage from the exhibits store, collected his car and set off for
Neston, taking the corner where Neil had had his accident with exaggerated care. When he reached the town the sun had started
to peep through the clouds, sending a beam of light streaming down on the half-ruined castle which guarded the end of the
high street. After negotiating the byzantine one-way system round the back streets he found a space in a small car park near
his destination and walked into the centre of town. As well as the usual high street shops, Neston had an
array of New Age outlets on its steep main shopping street selling everything from crystals to alternative remedies to handmade
organic clothing, and as he walked he caught a whiff of incense on the air.

Mysterioso was tucked away down a little back alley next door to an organic sandwich shop and its window display featured
a variety of robes, athames and books on the occult. There were cloaks too, presumably similar to the one Lilith claimed had
gone missing after her break-in. Wesley pushed the door open and a bell jangled somewhere above him, bringing a woman rushing
from the back of the shop. The first thing that struck Wesley was how ordinary she looked. Wesley estimated she was in her
late sixties and she wore her long, steel-grey hair in a pony tail tied with a bright pink scrunchy. Her only concession to
the witch stereotype was a long black skirt but apart from that she looked like your average benevolent granny. Even her smile
of greeting was decidedly benign.

She introduced herself as Selina and as soon as Wesley mentioned Mark’s name and explained the reason for his visit, she turned
the shop sign to closed and led him through into the back.

The little room behind the counter was comfortable with well-worn chintz armchairs and a collection of table lamps that gave
the place a cosy glow. As he sat down he began to relax, as though he was having tea with an elderly aunt, only the tea he
was offered was herbal and tasted foul.

‘I presume you want to know all about the Benleys,’ she said as Wesley sipped at his drink politely, trying not to gag on
the musty taste.

He was glad she’d come straight to the point.

‘I’ve heard that Lilith’s missing. And before you ask, I
haven’t seen her or heard from her since her release from prison. I have absolutely no idea where she is but I’m happy to
tell you everything I know about her and her mother.’

‘Were you surprised when they killed those two young girls?’

‘Allegedly killed those two young girls.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘I was one of the few people who believed they were
innocent. I knew them quite well, you see. Especially Lilith. She used to come here quite often.’

‘You were friends?’

She considered the question for a second and nodded. ‘Yes. I’d say we were friends but I haven’t seen her for eighteen years.
I did wonder whether to write to her in prison but … I suppose I was a coward.’

‘So you did have doubts about her innocence?’

She wagged a finger at him. ‘You’re very perceptive, Detective Inspector. I feel awful about it now but the old saying about
there being no smoke without fire always pops into your head at a time like that, doesn’t it? But it was just so out of character.
Besides, she was a Wiccan like me and the main tenet of our belief is “harm none”. Lilith was no Satanist, Inspector. She
wouldn’t have had anything to do with that sort of thing. Harm none, that’s what she believed. Harm none.’

‘The authorities judged that her mother was insane. Maybe she killed the girls and Lilith panicked and felt she had to dispose
of the bodies to defend the old woman.’

When Selina shook her head a few strands of grey hair escaped the confines of her pony tail and flopped over her face. She
pushed them behind her ears with a hand laden with large jewelled rings.

‘Her mother suffered from dementia, Inspector. She
wasn’t capable of killing those girls any more than Lilith was. What happened to those women was a tragedy. I only heard last
night on the news that Lilith had come home and that the police were looking for her. If I’d known she was back I would have
called round to offer her my support.’ She spoke bravely. But brave talk is easy after the event.

‘Did you have, er … meetings?’

‘You mean the coven?’

Wesley nodded. He hadn’t really liked to use the word as, in his mind, it conjured pictures of naked prancing in the woods.

‘Traditionally there are thirteen in a coven but at that time we only had eleven, nine when Dorothy and Lilith left us. Wicca
isn’t an organised religion, Inspector, there’s no hierarchy. There are lone witches and even online covens. And yes, we met
regularly for ceremonies and worship when they were with us. We still do and we now have the requisite thirteen.’ She looked
down modestly. ‘I have the honour of being the priestess. We have a priest too. Our coven is thriving, I’m pleased to say.’

‘Lilith and Dorothy were equally committed?’

‘If anything, Dorothy was the keenest. I sensed Lilith’s enthusiasm didn’t match her mother’s. I think she had other things
in her life.’

‘Such as?’

‘There were things Lilith kept to herself and before you ask, I’ve no idea what they were.’

‘The woman who was murdered near Lilith’s cottage was killed with an athame … a ceremonial knife. You stock a lot here in
the shop.’

‘I’ve already had a couple of your officers round. Mine are all accounted for. I gave them a list of customers who’d
purchased them, of course, but I know most of them and I feel I can vouch for them.’

‘Who’s your supplier?’

‘A man called Evan Mumford. He lives locally and imports them from China. He distributes them all over the country.’

‘I’ve met Mr Mumford.’

‘Did you like him?’

The question was unexpected and Wesley was about to say that he hadn’t particularly taken to the man. But he thought the reply
sounded a little unprofessional so instead he turned the question back on Selina. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I can’t really say I do. But his wife’s a nice woman. She’s one of our number.’

‘A witch?’

‘A follower of Wicca, yes. I’m sure she won’t mind me telling you. She’s a very talented sculptor, you know. Far too good
for that husband of hers in my opinion.’

‘Is he in your coven?’

Selina shook her head. ‘Evan Mumford worships a very different sort of god and goddess, Inspector. Money.’ Selina shut her
lips tightly in disapproval.

‘There’s a lot of it about,’ Wesley said with a smile before taking the damaged book from Lilith’s cottage out of its protective
bag and handing it to her. ‘Do you recognise this?’

She opened the book and frowned. ‘Who did this?’

‘We don’t know. Is it a Book of Shadows?’

‘It certainly looks like one.’

‘It was found in Lilith Benley’s cottage.’

Selina said nothing while she flicked through what was left of the pages. ‘If someone did this, it’s an act of hatred.
A Book of Shadows is a record of a witch’s spiritual journey. This is almost like an attack on the witch herself.’