The Shining Skull by Kate Ellis Page A

was nothing we could prove. The boyfriend – Gordon Heather his name was – didn’t have a criminal record but I still
     didn’t trust the bastard. He was odd . . . decidedly odd. And I ask you, would a pampered, protected kid like Marcus just
     go off with someone he didn’t know? Course he wouldn’t. He disappeared from the school grounds at lunchtime and nobody saw
     a thing. What if Booker had arranged to meet him? Said something like, why don’t I come to fetch you at lunchtime and we can
     have a jolly picnic? She had no alibi for the time he disappeared. She said she was shopping in Morbay but she couldn’t prove
     it. She says she didn’t buy anything so she couldn’t produce any receipts and this was long before the days of CCTV cameras
     on every lamp post.’
    ‘Any idea where we can find her now?’
    Houldsworth smirked and shook his head.
    ‘You seem pretty sure it was her.’ Wesley glanced at Heffernan who was giving nothing away.
    Houldsworth pushed the notebooks in Wesley’s direction.‘Read the notes I took at the time and I’ll bet you a night’s free ale that you come to the same conclusion.’ He leaned forward.
     ‘I’d have liked to see that little bitch behind bars. What she did to that family was . . . ’ He shook his head, lost for
     adequate words. ‘It killed the poor mother, you know.’
    ‘So I’ve heard. You know the father died recently. And there’s a half-brother – a son by the father’s second wife.’
    ‘She still around?’
    ‘No. She died a while ago.’
    ‘Not a very lucky family, are they?’ mused Gerry Heffernan as he savoured the contents of his glass. Houldsworth’s sister
     kept a good cellar.
    ‘It was the half-brother, Adrian Fallbrook, who let us know that this man claiming to be Marcus had turned up.’
    ‘At least he’s got some sense. This phoney Marcus won’t hang round for long if he thinks the police are looking into his story,
     you’ll see.’
    ‘Can I take these notebooks?’
    ‘No use to me now,’ Houldsworth said sadly, staring at his empty glass. ‘Anyone going to the bar?’
    Wesley and Gerry made their excuses and left.
    Neil Watson found the Reverend John Ventnor at the vicarage, a detached brick box on the edge of the village, constructed
     in the nineteen sixties by someone with more interest in cost effectiveness than architectural style. The original vicarage
     – a gorgeous Georgian pile with a garden that had hosted many a fete – was now occupied by a retired city banker and his gym-honed
     second wife.
    Neil was greeted by Mrs Ventnor, a plump, pretty woman with a couple of toddlers clinging to her long floral skirts. She told
     him that John was busy writing his sermon, but would probably be grateful for the interruption, so Neil followed her into
     the house to the small room overlooking the back garden that served as the Rector’s study.
    ‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ Ventnor said as he rose from his seat, knocking his notes to the ground. ‘Found something interesting?’
    ‘You could say that,’ said Neil, glancing round the book-lined room. ‘One of the Bentham coffins contains two bodies.’
    The Rector frowned. ‘Really?’
    ‘I wondered if I could have a look at the burial register. One of the skeletons appears to be that of an older child. I’m
     just wondering whether a mother and child were buried together or . . . ’
    ‘It was common for a baby to be buried with its mother. But an older child in the same coffin . . . You’re sure it was in
     the same coffin? One hadn’t just rotted away or . . . ’
    ‘No, it was definitely the same coffin.’
    Ventnor picked a large set of keys up off the desk. ‘Tell you what, let’s go over to the church and have a look at the registers.
     They’re kept in a safe in the vestry.’
    Neil walked down the main village street with Ventnor who greeted people as he passed, making swift enquiries about bad legs
     and the state of parents’ health. Neil