Chapter 49
Wesley and Gerry used Gerry’s notorious set of skeleton keys to gain access. Jon probably had his own, given him by his father many years ago and kept during his years abroad and beyond. And he knew every entrance and exit where he could sneak in unobserved, just as he’d done when he’d killed Dale.
Wesley’s first thought as they stood at the main entrance was that the zoo had a sad and deserted look. The animals were gone, leaving only an unpleasant smell behind. The place was silent, and for a while he feared they might have got the whole thing wrong.
But his moment of self-doubt ended abruptly when he heard a noise, a metallic clang somewhere in the distance.
‘Over there,’ said Gerry in a stage whisper, pointing to the gate that separated the entrance and office area from the cages where the animals had once lived their cramped and unnatural existence.
Wesley didn’t hesitate. He pushed open the gate and was greeted with the sight of the man they’d been looking for since the discovery of Aleric Donnal’s rotting corpse.
The killer faced them, perfectly calm.
‘We’ve met before, Jon,’ said Wesley quietly.
‘Just the once, at Sycamore House. Or should we call it St Julian’s?
It must have come as a shock when the new owner insisted on demolishing the wall where you’d put Dr Donnal’s body.
When she employed you and Darren to deal with the leylandii, Mrs Jones had no idea that you’d lived in the house for a short time all those years ago; she didn’t know you’d killed your tutor, Dr Donnal, and your stepmother, Tina, and hidden their bodies on the premises. ’
The man they’d only previously known as George Watts, the tree surgeon, looked unconcerned. ‘Prove it.’
‘We will. Where’s Jim Baker?’
‘Who?’
‘The man you met while you were living at St Julian’s. The artist you invited to move in to share the rent. Where is he?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You killed your brother, Dale.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘We know all about Carla. We’ve seen your father’s diary.’
The killer’s defiant grin vanished, and he flinched as though Wesley had delivered a physical blow.
Gerry took out his phone. They needed backup.
But as he did so, Jon darted forward and knocked it from his hand.
The DCI stumbled to the ground just as Wesley made a grab for the assailant’s arm.
The other man was stronger than he was, but somehow Wesley managed to push him off balance.
As soon as Gerry righted himself, he made a grab for him and held on tight as Wesley pulled his handcuffs from his jacket pocket.
Snapping the cuffs on the struggling man was like wrestling with an angry cat, and Gerry resorted to sitting on the suspect, weighing him down with his bulky body while Wesley pinned his flailing arms behind his back.
‘You’re nicked,’ said Gerry, crowing with triumph like the hero of an old-fashioned cop show. Wesley couldn’t help smiling. The DCI seemed to be in his element.
Wesley called the patrol car. Where were they?
The answer came swiftly. They were outside the zoo.
They’d seen Wesley’s car parked over the road and had wondered what was going on.
For the sake of Gerry’s blood pressure, Wesley decided not to tell him what the officers had said.
Instead he ordered them to get in there fast. They had a suspect to take in. And they needed to find Jim Baker.
As Jon lay struggling on the ground, Wesley repeated the question. Where was Baker? But the man refused to answer. Gerry calculated that he couldn’t have taken him far, so he called the station and asked for back up.
When the pair from the patrol car showed up, they looked sheepish, expecting to be the target of Gerry’s notorious sarcastic wit.
Wesley saw relief on their faces when the DCI said nothing, and as if to make up for their earlier failings, they dealt with the suspect with smooth efficiency.
He was to be taken back to Tradmouth for questioning.
Wesley considered the possibilities for a few moments. There’d been no sign of blood or a struggle in the bungalow, so it was probable that Baker had been persuaded to go across the road to the deserted zoo. Could he have been taken to the Gadson house, Jon’s old home?
They didn’t have time to wait for more officers to arrive.
A man’s life might be at stake. As soon as Jon Gadson, alias George Watts, had been dragged protesting off the premises, Wesley dashed through the empty zoo and out of the back entrance, where a weed-infested pathway led to a shabby detached house with stained pebble-dash walls.
Gerry was panting behind him, and he was tempted to pause to allow him to catch up, but there was no time.
The front door was ajar, so he barged inside and rushed through the shabby, sparsely furnished rooms, checking wardrobes and any other possible hiding places. They needed to be thorough.
The search resulted in disappointment. There was no sign of Jim Baker.
Wesley had been trying to call Baker’s phone from time to time, with no luck. This time he went into the kitchen and tried again. When he listened very carefully, he was sure he could hear something; a slight sound, faint and tinny.
He unlocked the back door and found himself in a small, unkempt garden, which clearly hadn’t been tended to all the time Dale Gadson had been responsible for the place. When he looked round, he saw Gerry standing behind him.
‘Let’s hope there aren’t any snakes. Go ’ed.’
Wesley stepped into the long grass and strode forward.
He called the number again and listened.
The jaunty ringtone was getting nearer. And nearer.
But it was still muffled. He arrived at a paved area where the flagstones were fringed with weeds, and realised that the sound was coming from a tumbledown shed in the corner.
‘After you,’ the DCI whispered.
It took some effort to push the door open, and it scraped on the floor with a deafening creak.
The cobweb-shrouded interior of the shed was dark and cluttered, and it took Wesley’s eyes a few seconds to adjust before he spotted a shape on the floor at the back, half hidden by an ancient lawnmower.
At first he took it for a sack, before realising that it was Jim Baker, curled up in a foetal position.
And in the dim light trickling in through the small, dirt-caked window, the two policemen could see something dark and glistening on the man’s head. Blood.
Wesley rushed over and took Baker’s pulse. To his relief, it was still there, but it was very feeble. They needed to get help.
Gerry made the call requesting an ambulance. If Baker was going to make it, they had to be quick.
The paramedics reckoned it was touch and go before they took Jim Baker to Morbay.
It was a larger hospital than Tradmouth, with better facilities in the intensive care unit.
Wesley sent up a swift prayer for the man’s recovery, wondering whether his concern was purely selfish.
He hadn’t particularly liked Baker, but they needed his testimony if the case against Jon Gadson was to be proved.
When he and Gerry got back to the station in Tradmouth, they went to the CID office to bring the team up to date with developments before heading to the custody suite.
Gadson had already been processed and was waiting in a cell.
Gerry gave orders that he was to be taken to the interview room.
The suspect’s request for the duty solicitor had been granted; from the speed he’d arrived, Gerry reckoned he must have been twiddling his thumbs in his office.
He turned out to be a young man who looked to Wesley as though he’d just left school, but he took this as a sign he was succumbing to middle age.
He sat down beside Gerry, who was giving the suspect one of his best death stares.
Like Wesley, he’d seen what had been done to the innocent Sue Potter and the mild-mannered academic Aleric Donnal.
He knew that Carla Gadson must have lived in fear of her obsessive brother; he had seen how Dale Gadson, his stepmother Tina and Jim Baker had paid for the knowledge they’d possessed about the killer.
The use of Watts, Gadson’s mother’s surname before her marriage, on the routine details given to the police when Aleric Donnal’s body was discovered, coupled with the presence of a dragon tattoo matching the description given by Betsy and Barnaby Chalmers, had put them on the right track.
With a change of name and under the guise of a man who worked outdoors, Jon probably assumed he was safe to return after his years abroad.
According to Darren, he’d only worked for the tree-felling company for a few months, claiming that he’d been living in Canada for years, where he’d acquired the necessary skills.
Wesley wondered why he’d been drawn back to the West Country.
Maybe some things were instinctive and couldn’t be explained.
Or maybe something had happened to make him want to return.
Whatever the reason, he’d probably assumed time would have erased people’s memories.
But he’d been wrong. And two people, three if Baker didn’t make it, had paid with their lives.
‘You haven’t asked how Jim Baker is,’ Wesley began pleasantly after switching on the recording machine.
Jon’s eyes flickered for a second, telling Wesley that he’d probably thought his last victim was dead.
‘He was still alive when we reached him,’ Gerry chipped in. ‘He’s in hospital. I’ve called them, and he’s not as bad as they first thought. He’s expected to make a full recovery.’
Gadson’s face registered no emotion.
‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’ Wesley said, at his most charming. Good cop, bad cop. It usually worked wonders. ‘We saw your father’s diary from 2011. He was worried about you.’
‘I doubt it.’ These were the first words the suspect had uttered, and he almost spat them out.