The Mermaid's Scream

Book 21: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Why did literary legend Wynn Staniland suddenly become a recluse in the 1980s? Most assumed he stopped writing because of his wife's bizarre suicide. And now a promising young author called Zac Wilkinson is working on Staniland's biography and hopes to reveal the true story to a waiting world. When Wilkinson is found brutally murdered, DI Wesley Peterson finds links to the unexplained poisoning of a middle-aged couple – and Staniland appears to be the connection. The case becomes personal for Wesley when he discovers his son is involved, and as he begins to unravel decades of secrets and deception, the shocking truth proves almost too much to bear . . .

Release date: February 2, 2017

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Zac Wilkinson had read the opening passage from The Viper’s Kiss, Wynn Staniland’s best-known book, so many times that he almost knew it by heart.

‘“I can hear the mermaids screaming,”’ he began. ‘“They sit each day on the rocks at the foot of the cliff, throw their heads back and scream at the waves crashing by their glistening tails. I am afraid of the mermaids. I fear that one day their screams will turn into a song and they’ll lure me into the sea with all those poor dead sailors whose souls they have claimed over the centuries.

‘“Because the dead never leave you. The dead are there whenever you glimpse a vague shape in the shadows, caught for a moment then gone. Never forget the dead because they never forget you. What you do to the dead in this life matters more than you can know because they haunt you forever with blessing or vengeance, like the mermaid’s song.”’

As always he ended his talk with these familiar and disturbing words and, as always, there was an uneasy pause between his silence and the polite applause, as though the mention of the dead had left the middle-aged and predominantly female audience temporarily stunned.

Once the reading was over they asked the usual questions. ‘Have you met Wynn Staniland? What does he think of the biography you’re writing? Does he mind having his dirty linen washed in public? Is he ever going to write another book?’

Zac’s answers were well rehearsed and noncommittal. Yes, he’d met Wynn Staniland. He’d visited the author and his daughter at their home, Addersacre, on a number of occasions. And yes, Wynn was happy to cooperate with the biography. But it had been made quite clear to Zac that one subject was strictly off limits and that was the death of Wynn’s wife. This was quite understandable, Zac said. A biographer shouldn’t be in the business of resurrecting painful memories just for the sake of selling a few more copies of the book (which, incidentally, will be out next spring, published by Bream and Seager, priced at £18.99).

Zac’s reply to the audience’s final question had been more vague. Wynn hadn’t altogether ruled out writing another novel, but that’s all he was at liberty to say for the moment.

As the last stragglers trickled out of the room, Zac tidied his papers and returned them to his leather shoulder bag before complimenting the librarians who’d organised his talk with their customary efficiency. They hadn’t been sure how many people to expect but, as it turned out, the subject of Wynn Staniland had attracted quite a crowd, all fascinated to get the lowdown on the reclusive author’s private life and to find out why, after five award-winning books that had taken the literary world by storm, Wynn Staniland had suddenly turned his back on fame and chosen to live the life of a recluse. Zac, reluctant to spoil the revelations in his book, had dropped tantalising hints but he’d been careful to give little away.

After saying his farewells he stepped into the night, aware that he needed to go over the latest draft of the opening five chapters first thing the next morning. Since he’d taken on the biography there had been draft after draft to be pored over like some precious, sacred tome. Then of course Wynn would want to give it his nod of assent or otherwise, adding ideas and taking others away. Zac’s previous subjects had never been so particular, but then they’d been sportsmen, TV personalities or actors, happy to go along with anything he suggested. Writing about Staniland, the author he’d admired so much during his teenage years, had seemed like a dream when he’d first gained the great man’s approval for the project. It couldn’t feel less like one now.

Zac walked straight back to the tiny cottage near the town centre he was renting for the duration. It was up a steep, narrow street – a one-in-three hill. He took a deep breath before attempting the climb, contemplating the bottle of single malt waiting for him on the coffee table. His reward for a hard day’s work.

When the cottage came into view he stopped to catch his breath for a few moments, suddenly reluctant to carry on. With everything that had happened over the past days, the cottage had ceased to be his haven. A serpent had crept in, curling itself round the foundations, slithering over his sleeping body. He had the sensation of being watched, but every time he looked round there was nobody there.

Although he told himself it was all in his imagination, the question always nagged at the back of his mind. What if somebody had discovered the truth about who he really was? He’d been assured it could never happen but those promises were starting to seem hollow. He felt vulnerable. More vulnerable than he’d felt since he’d been reborn as a new creation.

As he approached the cottage he took his key from his pocket. Then he saw the damage: splinters of wood around the lock as though somebody had taken a chisel to it. For a brief moment he contemplated calling at the neighbouring houses to ask whether anybody had seen or heard anything suspicious. But his front door stood down a small side passage, invisible from the street.

His heart pounded as he unlocked the door, and when it swung open he hovered on the threshold for a few moments before flicking on the light switch.

As far as he could see, nothing had been disturbed which meant that whoever had tried to break in hadn’t succeeded. Either that or they’d gone about their business with neat professionalism.

His hands were shaking as he took his phone from his pocket, wondering whether to report it to the police. It took him a few moments to decide that he’d need a crime number for the letting agency’s insurance and, besides, he’d done nothing wrong. This time.

 

Farming was tough these days and, from bitter experience, David Gough knew you had to diversify to survive. His father had bought the field overlooking the sea in more prosperous times and while the ten static caravans he’d put there a couple of years ago didn’t bring in a fortune, every little bit helped – just like the time he’d sold those strange old puppets he’d found in the barn for a tidy sum to some weird man who ran the Dukesbridge Arts Festival.

His wife, Joan, had moaned when he’d spent money on the new fencing in the caravan field but he’d got it done cheaply. No problem. Although at times David wondered whether the caravans were worth the effort of all the maintenance. But, since he’d handed over the day-to-day running of the farm to his sons, they’d become his responsibility.

A couple of weeks ago a family from Birmingham had complained about the smell of slurry. But nothing could be done about the slurry pit when the wind was in the wrong direction. Now someone else had called him with another complaint and as he opened the gate to the field, shutting it carefully behind him, he rehearsed his excuses.

At least the rain had stopped; there was nothing like rain to put the holidaymakers in a foul mood. As he trudged across the damp grass in the darkness, he could see the glow of the moon through ominous clouds. If the sky had been clear there would have been a fine display of twinkling stars. The visitors often commented on the lack of light pollution here.

The latest complaint had been made by the man in caravan three and, after Gough had had a terse word, he approached the caravan in question and sniffed the air. He knew the smell of slurry only too well and this wasn’t it.

Caravan five stood at the end of the field by the new fence, slightly apart from the others. Lights blazed behind the thin floral curtains, suggesting someone was at home. But as Gough drew nearer he saw that the windows were alive with moving black dots. It took him a few seconds to realise they were flies.

He gave three sharp raps on the door. According to the man in caravan three, the occupants hadn’t been seen for a couple of days and the curtains hadn’t shifted. When Gough knocked again all he could hear from inside the caravan was the faint buzz of insects and he had an uncomfortable feeling that something was very wrong.

The man from caravan three, a nosy character with a shiny bald head and an officious manner, was still watching. Gough unlocked the door and as it swung open the buzzing grew louder and he put his hand to his nose as the odour of decay hit him.

He forced himself to look at the two people inside. The woman lay on the floor, fully clothed, her arm outstretched as though she was trying to reach for help. She wore a yellow sun dress that seemed quite inappropriate in that grisly tableau.

Beyond her a man was slumped on the tweed banquette seating, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle on the table as though spoilsport Death had caught him before he could help himself to another glass. The man’s other hand rested on the woman’s hair. A touch of farewell before their world turned dark.

Gough heard the man from caravan three’s voice behind him.

‘We should call the police.’

David Gough hesitated then took his phone from his pocket. It looked like he had no choice.

DI Wesley Peterson watched his wife as she sipped the tea he’d just brought her. Since her spell in hospital that spring after her breast cancer had been diagnosed, he’d become quite the devoted husband. Sometimes she scolded him for fussing, but he knew she’d prefer this to the alternative.

The clock on the mantelpiece told him the ten o’clock news was about to begin and he felt unusually tired. Perhaps it was the oppressive weather, warm and dull with regular showers to add to the humidity. Or perhaps it was the constant worry about Pam’s health.

When he told her he was going to bed, she said she intended to watch the news headlines before finishing the next chapter of her book. She’d be up later. It was something she’d read years ago but was rereading for a book group she’d recently joined. The central theme was the impact of a woman’s suicide on a small rural community. When Wesley had read it himself he hadn’t particularly enjoyed it.

The antihero in Wynn Staniland’s The Viper’s Kiss, the man who’d driven the woman to take her own life, was, in Wesley’s opinion, amoral, charmless and unworthy of anyone’s sympathy. When he’d shared his thoughts with Pam she’d teased him for being reactionary, blaming the strictly moral way he’d been raised by his God-fearing Trinidadian parents. He’d felt obliged to counter her argument, saying his upbringing had been loving and secure. He was tempted to compare his family to Pam’s self-centred mother, Della, but erred on the side of tact and kept quiet. He’d always regarded it as a miracle that Pam had turned out as well as she had. He presumed she’d inherited her down-to-earth nature from her long-dead, long-suffering father.

Wesley knew The Viper’s Kiss, Staniland’s second book, was generally regarded as a masterpiece and, like its predecessor published the year before, it had won numerous awards. After this the author had produced three further novels before withdrawing completely from the literary scene, no doubt disappointing his publisher but making himself a legend in the process.

Staniland lived in the locality and had a long-established reputation for being a recluse. Journalists who’d tried to invade his privacy had always been given short shrift but, after decades of shunning publicity, the author was now allowing his biography to be written. Pam speculated that he might be running out of money and needed to boost his book sales by bringing himself back into the public eye. Wesley suspected her cynical observation was probably true. Even recluses have to make a living.

Tradmouth’s library-cum-arts centre happened to be next door to the police station and Wesley had seen posters advertising a talk by Staniland’s biographer – a man called Zac Wilkinson – who promised to reveal the secrets of the great man’s life. Although when Pam had attended the talk earlier that evening she’d come back with the feeling she’d been cheated, since none of the alleged secrets dangled so temptingly in the publicity blurb had been revealed and the speaker had told the audience they’d have to buy the book to find out more. To Wesley this seemed like an underhand trick. But he’d encountered worse deceptions in the course of his career.

He was about to head upstairs when his phone rang, setting off a frantic search until he located it behind a cushion on the sofa.

‘Wes.’ He recognised DCI Gerry Heffernan’s voice with its distinctive Liverpool accent at once. When Gerry called at this time of night it usually meant trouble.

‘Sorry to spoil your evening but we’re needed at Stoke Beeching – Cliff View Caravan Park. Two unexplained deaths.’

For a few moments Wesley didn’t speak. Pam appeared to be engrossed in her book but he sensed she was pretending, hoping he wasn’t about to leave her alone again. She went to great pains to convince everyone around her she no longer felt fragile and vulnerable but Wesley knew her too well to be fooled. Reluctantly he told her he had to go out, but promised he’d be back as soon as he could.

It began to rain heavily as he drove out to Stoke Beeching – a front of low pressure had been stuck over the West of England for the past day or so. He switched on his windscreen wipers and they swished to and fro with a hypnotic rhythm as he steered the car down the snaking road. There were streetlights in the villages but once the houses petered out, the world was plunged into darkness. When he’d transferred from London to Devon all those years ago he’d hated driving down these roads at night. He still didn’t like it but it was something he’d had to get used to.

Half a mile outside the village he spotted a sign in the beam of his headlights: the words CLIFF VIEW CARAVAN PARK in faded letters below a smiling seagull pointing the way with its wing. In his experience seagulls were never that cooperative in real life. He followed the directions and soon found himself at a reception area which was little more than a shed beside a farm gate. However, he could see that the shed had lace curtains. A touch of class.

After driving through the open gate he spotted a brace of patrol cars parked next to an unmarked police car at the end of the field. Some keen constable had already sealed off the caravan in question – a medium-sized static standing slightly apart from its neighbours – with police tape. Wesley saw light streaming from the open caravan door.

He left his car at the top of the field and as he walked towards the action he saw faces at the windows of some of the other caravans – rubbernecking neighbours who would have to be interviewed at some point. If it wasn’t for the rain, he guessed they’d be outside gawping, enjoying a bit of holiday excitement.

He put up the hood of his waterproof coat and hurried towards Gerry, who was standing just inside the caravan door. But before he could utter a word of greeting, the scene manager handed him a package containing his crime scene suit, the white overall that was de rigueur on such occasions.

He sheltered in the back seat of one of the patrol cars to undertake the undignified procedure of pulling it on over his clothes. The car smelled strongly of body odour and he was eager to get back out into the damp fresh air, until he neared the caravan and caught a whiff of something even more unpleasant, a faint smell of rotting meat. He stepped over the metal plates the CSIs had put down and began to climb the caravan steps.

‘Wes, let’s talk outside,’ Gerry said, coming down the steps to join him. He sounded relieved, as though Wesley had lifted some great burden from his shoulders. Gerry Heffernan was a large man with a chubby face and grizzled hair, not especially tall but certainly carrying more weight than the medical profession would approve of.

Gerry turned his head and looked at the half-open door behind him. ‘Colin’s in there doing his stuff. I came out. Couldn’t stand the smell.’

‘What have we got?’ The smell of decay was stronger now.

‘Man and woman. They’ve been dead a couple of days, according to Colin, but with the heat…’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘They rented the caravan in the name of Mr and Mrs Lombard; gave David Gough who owns the site an address in Leeds. We’ve notified their local police.’

‘Suspicious?’

‘Colin’s first thought was poison. He reckons it could be a suicide pact. Or a murder then suicide. It happens.’

Wesley bowed his head. In the course of his career he’d encountered a few cases of someone killing a loved one then taking their own life. It was usually an act of fury – or sometimes desperation.

‘If it’s poison do we know how it was administered?’

‘There’s a half-empty champagne bottle on the table and two glasses. Looks like they decided to go out in style.’

Wesley sneaked a look at his watch. It was after eleven. ‘Are you sure we’re needed here?’

Gerry shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, but we can’t take any chances.’ He walked back up the steps and pushed the door open. ‘You ready?’

Wesley nodded, took a deep breath and followed his boss into the unknown.

When Zac Wilkinson reported the attempted break-in at his rented cottage he was told not to touch anything until someone called round. He waited up for the police until two in the morning then, when nobody arrived, retired to bed in disgust.

A constable finally turned up at ten o’clock the following morning: a stocky middle-aged man in a bulky stab vest who wore the bored look of someone who’d seen it all before, which he probably had. With no apology for the delay and only a cursory examination of the damaged front door, he doled out a crime number for the landlord’s insurance company.

‘Did they manage to get in? Is anything missing?’ he asked, taking his notebook from his pocket.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You here on holiday, sir?’

Zac hesitated. ‘No. I’m a writer. I’m down here to work.’

‘A writer, eh?’ The constable scribbled something in his book. ‘What kind of books do you write?’

Zac swallowed his impatience and told him.

‘Wynn Staniland? I’ve heard that name. Doesn’t he live round here?’

‘Yes. Er… there’s something else.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I think someone’s been following me.’

‘And what makes you think that, sir?’ the constable said as if he was humouring a child.

Zac suddenly regretted saying anything. ‘Not sure. Just a feeling.’

The expression of amused scepticism on the constable’s face told Zac the man considered him the over-imaginative, arty type.

‘This is the only attempted break-in round here so far this season. Why pick on you? Do you think he was after something in particular?’

‘I don’t know.’

Zac saw the constable give him another sceptical look. This wasn’t going well. And if the man knew the truth about him, things would get even worse.

 

Dr Neil Watson of the County Archaeological Unit felt a tingle of anticipation as he headed for the village of Whitely. It was only two miles from Tradmouth and the proximity reminded him that he hadn’t seen his old friend Wesley Peterson for almost a month. Every time he’d contacted Wesley there’s been some excuse not to meet and he wondered if this had anything to do with Pam’s illness. Wesley had been uncharacteristically subdued since her diagnosis, as though he’d caught a brief glimpse of the gloating, skeletal face of the Grim Reaper and it had shaken him more than he’d cared to admit.

Neil had been busy himself. Over the past month he’d been in charge of a rescue excavation near Exeter city centre, finding out what was under the ground before work started on a new block of flats. It was an interesting site, producing a good selection of medieval and Roman finds, but within the next few days he was due to hand it over to the developers who’d been circling impatiently like hyenas round the corpse of a wildebeest, waiting for the lions to have their fill.

Neil had been intrigued when he’d received a call from Giles Billingham, Tradmouth Council’s conservation officer. Newfield Manor – or rather the ruins of Newfield Manor – had been on the Buildings at Risk Register for a number of years. Now, however, according to Giles, the Manor had a new owner who was anxious to develop the property, which meant there’d need to be a full archaeological assessment of the building and the site before any work went ahead.

Neil turned the car down the narrow lane, lined each side with hedges high and impregnable as castle walls, and when he finally reached his destination he saw that both ivy-clad gateposts guarding the entrance to Newfield Manor were slumped against the crumbling wall at a drunken angle. He turned into the drive and proceeded slowly over the potholed ground, fearing for his exhaust. The shadows cast by the overgrown trees leaning over the drive forced him to turn on his headlights and when he suddenly emerged into the dazzling sunlight he saw the shell of a building rearing in front of him, vegetation sprouting from the windows and what little remained of the roof.

He switched off the engine and sat for a few moments before leaving the car and when he slammed the car door shut the noise echoed like a gunshot. Crows shrieked and cackled in the surrounding trees and an unexpected shock of fear passed through him, as though something malevolent didn’t want him to be there. He studied the house, noting every feature, each stone lintel, each brick and each remnant of fallen roof slate. The windows were blank and glassless like the dead eyes of a corpse and the stonework showed signs of scorching as though there’d been a fire at some point in the building’s history.

He was relieved when he heard a car engine approaching. Giles to the rescue, he thought, feeling stupid for letting the place spook him. He watched Giles emerge from his vehicle. He was in his thirties, with prematurely thinning hair and the look of a benevolent medieval clerk. Always prepared, he wore a waterproof coat over his local government jacket and tie, and also wellingtons, in case of rain.

‘Strange place, isn’t it?’ Giles said once greetings had been exchanged. ‘I’ve been here a few times but it still gives me the creeps.’

‘I know what you mean. What can I do for you?’

‘The farmer who used to own the place sold it a few months ago to an American, name of Karl Banville. Mr Banville wants to undertake a complete renovation – which might be good or it might be bad.’ Giles had always been cautious by nature.

‘What does he plan to do with it?’

‘So far there’s been no application for change of use so I suppose there’s a chance he wants to live here.’ Neil heard a note of disbelief in Giles’s voice. ‘But I have heard mention of a hotel. We’ll have to wait and see.’

Neil looked at the wreck of a building in front of him. ‘He must have money to burn,’ he said, half envious. Still, if he’d wanted to be a rich man he’d never have chosen a career in archaeology.

‘No doubt he has fancy plans for it. Let’s just hope they’ll be plans I can approve. Before he makes any planning application I’d like a detailed archaeological report on the fabric of the building so we can monitor any future development. You know the routine.’

‘I certainly do.’

Giles hesitated. ‘The new owner asked me if I knew how to arrange a proper excavation in the gardens. He says he’s willing to fund it.’

Neil’s eyes lit up. It sounded as if it might be his unit’s lucky day.

‘How long’s the house been in this state? What’s the story?’

Giles looked around before replying, as if to check that nobody was eavesdropping. ‘There was a murder here in the eighteen eighties. Quite a notorious case. After that it changed hands many times but nobody stayed for long. A fire in the nineteen forties destroyed one wing completely and after that the house was abandoned and most of the land sold to a neighbouring farmer.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘I know it’s nonsense but there’s a story that nobody wanted to live here because the murder victim never left. They say she’s still here.’

 

Zac Wilkinson knew the chances of the police finding whoever tried to break into the cottage were virtually zero. Usually they were useless. But they’d succeeded once and he’d paid the price.

He didn’t own a car. Living in London, it was easier to rely on public transport to get around. But this hadn’t been an option in rural South Devon where buses were regarded as unpredictable and rarely glimpsed creatures, so he’d hired a small VW for the duration of his stay. He’d left the car on Crossbones Hill, the nearest parking place though precipitously steep. When it came into view he was relieved, as always, that the handbrake had held in his absence.

He had an appointment with Wynn Staniland to get his approval for the revised chapters. He also needed to ask him more questions about his time at Oxford because before when he’d broached the subject the answers had been t. . .