The Skeleton Room by Kate Ellis

neighbours here hardly say a word to you and I can’t remember seeing any of them.’
    ‘Did the postman call with a parcel . . . the milkman come for his money? Anything. Did a neighbour see you hanging the washing
     out?’
    ‘Used the tumble dryer, didn’t I?’ He gave Wesley a sad smile, as though he knew he was doing his best.
    ‘Is there anybody we can call?’ Rachel sounded concerned. ‘A relative or friend? Your sister?’
    ‘No, love. Thanks all the same. I wouldn’t be much company. I’m better on my own.’
    Rachel nodded. She’d forgive him calling her ‘love’ this once. She had to make allowances.
    As they walked out into the hallway, Wesley glanced back and saw that Trevor Gilbert was opening a new bottle of whisky.
    Rachel Tracey drove through the narrow country lanes and at three o’clock they reached the carpark overlooking Monks Island.
     The small island lay close to the shore, topped by its white wedding cake of a hotel. At low tide you could walk there but
     now, surrounded as it was by swirling water, it could only be reached by a strange vehicle resembling a tractor on stilts
     that reminded Wesley of a Victorian bathing machine. He watched, fascinated, asit swallowed its passengers and disgorged them on the island’s shore.
    Gerry Heffernan was standing, shirtsleeves rolled up, breathing in the salty air and staring longingly out to sea.
    They climbed from the car and strolled over to join him.
    ‘You took your time. How did you get on at Trevor Gilbert’s?’ The chief inspector shuffled from foot to foot impatiently.
     Something was annoying him.
    ‘He hasn’t been able to come up with an alibi for the time she disappeared. Where’s Sally Gilbert’s car?’
    ‘It’s been taken back to the nick. Forensics’ll give it a good going over. It was found in a side road up behind those white
     bungalows.’
    The officers who were to carry out the search of the cliff tops stood around in groups, talking quietly. A gaggle of curious
     tourists loitered some way off, staring. A few families watched, licking ice creams, their holiday entertainment provided
     courtesy of the local constabulary. Gerry Heffernan turned and looked at them and Wesley feared he was about to make some
     witty remark that might damage relations between police and public. But he held his tongue for once.
    ‘Let’s get on, Wes. I can’t do with an audience. If I wanted to be watched while I was working I’d have gone on the stage.’
    ‘What about the search of the cliff tops?’
    ‘We’ve got all available officers on it. But it’s a big job. At least it hasn’t rained since Friday . . . which makes a change.’
    ‘Her car’s been found here so it looks as though your friend George was right. She must have gone into the sea somewhere near
     by. What about the island?’
    ‘They’re searching the cliffs on the seaward side.’ Heffernan thought for a moment. ‘If someone arranged to meet her, the
     island would be a good place. It’s popular with visitors but most of them stick to the hotel or the café and pub down near
     the shore. If she met her murderer inthe café and he suggested they go for a walk round the island . . .’
    ‘Sounds feasible. We’ll just have to see what the search comes up with.’
    Heffernan nodded as he looked longingly at a child’s chocolate ice cream. They would have to wait and see.
    Detective Constable Paul Johnson drove out of Tradmouth with Steve Carstairs sitting silently beside him in the passenger
     seat.
    As they turned onto the Neston road Steve broke the silence. ‘Did you know Harry Marchbank’s back?’
    ‘Yeah. I saw him coming out of the office yesterday. How is he?’
    Paul followed the signs to the Neston industrial estate.
    ‘Same as ever.’
    Paul didn’t answer. He had been a probationer when Marchbank had left and he couldn’t say he was sorry to see the back of
     him. DS Marchbank had been an arrogant sod: Paul much preferred his successor,