Chapter 50
The next morning, Jon Gadson was charged. Gerry was confident that they had enough evidence against him to convince the CPS to proceed. It was now a matter of getting it into some sort of order, something the DCI was bound to leave to others. He’d always claimed to be allergic to paperwork.
Jim Baker was now up to being interviewed, so Wesley and Gerry made their way to Morbay Hospital, where the patient had been moved out of the high-dependency unit and was sitting up in bed.
Gerry took a seat by the bed and asked where the grapes were. He fancied a couple. This gained a smile from the patient. The first Wesley had ever seen.
‘You’ve got him, haven’t you?’
‘And we’ll lock him up. Then, hopefully, we’ll throw away the key,’ said Gerry jovially. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better.’
‘So you’re ready to answer a few questions?’ asked Wesley.
‘Fire away.’
‘Why did the man you knew as Carlo Lanzani try to kill you? Did you know something about his crimes? Dale Gadson wanted to tell us something. We think it was something you told him.’
There was a long silence. When Baker finally spoke, it was almost in a whisper.
‘I was high on acid. I used it a lot in those days. Hallucinogens. They do what it says on the tin. You have hallucinations. Sometimes wonderful rainbow colours and sometimes nightmarish images so you see monsters coming out of the walls and you feel your skin being eaten by giant worms.’ He shuddered.
‘I gave it up years ago. But when I was at St Julian’s, I indulged a lot.
I thought it’d open the doors of creativity, but all I got was bad trips.
There were weird carvings in the garden there; strange animals.
I started seeing them moving towards me.
That’s why I paint them now; it helps to exorcise the beasts.
’ He shuddered and fell silent. After a while, he spoke again.
‘That wasn’t the worst thing. One day I walked into a room and saw Carlo putting a dead body inside a wall.
I always thought I was seeing crazy nightmare things that weren’t there.
I never thought for one moment that it had actually happened. ’
‘Until a body was found inside the wall and you finally realised it had been real.’
‘That’s about it. After that, I was scared that Carlo would come for me. And he did. But I don’t know how he found me.’
‘He went to see his brother, Dale. He’d been watching the zoo for a while before his visit and he’d seen you go in.
When he asked Dale about you, he told him that you’d said you’d had problems; said you thought you’d once witnessed a murder and you thought you’d been hallucinating until a body was actually found.
Of course Dale didn’t realise he was talking to the actual killer and putting you in danger as well as himself.
Jon Gadson – Carlo Lanzani – was determined to eliminate all witnesses to what he’d done. You were unlucky.’
Jim Baker gave a bitter smile. ‘Maybe my luck will change when I go to London. They’ll appreciate my work there.’
‘Let’s hope,’ said Wesley.
When they returned to the station, Wesley spent the next few hours wrestling with forms and statements. After lunch, he felt he needed some fresh air, so he suggested to Rachel that they go and tell Helen Jones that the killer of the man in her wall had been caught.
As they turned into the drive at Sycamore House, Wesley saw Neil’s car parked beside the university archaeology department’s muddy minibus, a vehicle nobody had ever seemed inclined to clean even during Wesley’s own student days.
Helen Jones opened the front door, looking pleased to see them. The first thing she told them was that Chaz and his mate were working hard putting in the new kitchen, and as she led them into the drawing room, they could hear hammering and drilling in the distance.
‘Are you still selling the house?’ Wesley asked, puzzled.
‘Not if I can help it,’ she replied, folding her arms defiantly.
‘I’ve told the estate agent to take it off the market.
Ralph’s away on business half the time so he’s hardly here, and once Chaz has finished, you won’t recognise the place.
I’m working with a local interior designer to get it exactly how I want it.
And I’ve told Neil and his friends that they can come and dig here any time they like.
’ A triumphant smile spread across her face. The smile of the victor.
After breaking the news of the arrest, Wesley left Helen in Rachel’s more than capable hands, saying he was going to see how the dig was progressing.
He made his way over towards the site of the chapel, where they’d found the male skeleton, not far from the spot where Jon Gadson had buried his hated stepmother, Tina.
So much death. In the unlikely event of Wesley and Pam having sufficient funds to purchase Sycamore House, it wasn’t somewhere they would ever want to call home, however large and luxurious Helen’s renovations would make it.
It was a house of murder, and who knew what sad ghosts might linger there.
But Helen Jones obviously saw things differently.
His thoughts were interrupted by Neil’s voice shouting a greeting from the direction of the ruined chapel.
‘Wes. Just the man I wanted to see. I’ve solved the mystery of our male skeleton. Well, Annabel has.’
Neil was still holding his trowel, but he put it in one of his many trouser pockets, took off the hard hat he was wearing and scratched his head.
‘She’s been spending a lot of time with her ex,’ he said quietly after a short silence.
‘Who do you mean?’
‘Miles Fontescue. She’s been searching through the archives at Fontescue Hall for material about the chapel.’
‘I interviewed Miles at the start of the inquiry.’
‘He’s married, and Annabel told me his wife was away. But reading between the lines, I think she might have walked out on him.’
Wesley mouthed an ‘oh’, lost for words. His friend looked forlorn, and he couldn’t find any words of reassurance. He thought it wise to change the subject. ‘You say she’s solved the mystery of your male skeleton. What did she find?’
‘It was in the Fontescue Hall muniment room in an old oak chest. Documents written in the late fifteenth century by a Brother Anselm, who Annabel thinks was a younger son of the Fontescue family. He joined the Augustinian monastery in Neston – the one connected with this chapel. In those days, they often sent younger sons into the Church. Anselm, whose real name was Richard Fontescue, acted as a sort of secret agent, taking messages between Lancastrian supporters in the south-west and the man who later became Henry VII when he defeated Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth. Henry was in exile in Brittany, gathering supporters and waiting for the right moment, while his tiger mum, Margaret Beaufort, schemed and plotted at Richard’s court. It’s quite a story.’
The light of enthusiasm had reignited in Neil’s eyes. It seemed that history had taken his mind off any doubts he was having about his romantic life.
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to hear we’ve charged someone with the murder of the woman you found buried in the clearing. Along with other murders, past and present.’
‘Aleric Donnal?’
‘Yes. As well as that poor woman in Belsham. And the owner of the zoo in East Burrington.’ Wesley paused. ‘Plus his own sister.’
‘Bloody hell. You’ve caught a serial killer?’ Neil slapped Wesley on the back. ‘You should get a medal.’
‘It was a team effort,’ said Wesley modestly. ‘I’m not sure whether I should tell you this yet before the name’s been released, but our man is one of the tree surgeons who uncovered your chapel wall.’
‘Not Darren?’ Neil said in sheer disbelief.
‘No, the other one. George.’
‘I always thought there was something dodgy about him. Darren said he wanted to sell our grotesques to a garden centre. And he made it quite clear he couldn’t stand archaeologists.’
Wesley began to laugh. ‘A sure sign. Should be in every police manual.’
When they returned to the station, Gerry seemed positively jubilant. There was a huge grin on his chubby face that widened when he saw Wesley walk in.
‘Drinks at the Tradmouth Arms tonight,’ he announced proudly. ‘Even the chief super’s smiling. I invited her, but she made her excuses, thank God.’
‘How’s the back, Gerry? You seem better.
The DCI looked coy and his cheeks turned bright red. ‘Er, I’ve not mentioned it before, but after work last night I thought I’d try some alternative therapy. I saw it advertised and decided it wouldn’t do any harm to give it a go. Something different and all that.’
‘What sort of alternative therapy?’ Wesley asked, wondering why his boss looked so embarrassed.
‘It was, er . . . Della’s place actually.’
‘Not the goats?’
‘Er, yeah. They hang around to put you in a calm mood while June gives you a deep massage. It’s worked wonders.’
Wesley was lost for words as he tried to banish the image of the DCI being massaged watched by hairy goats.
‘Glad it’s worked,’ he said before following Gerry into his office, where his eyes were drawn to the waste bin by the desk.
In it he saw the leaflets about retirement and the police pension scheme torn in two and deposited among the rubbish. The sight made his heart sing.