The Shining Skull by Kate Ellis

domesticity.
     However, she still organised the local PCC and an assortment of charity events with the same ruthless efficiency with which
     she’d run her employer’s life.
    ‘It’s like a sort of fog. Sometimes it clears and I remember things. But sometimes . . . ’
    Carol pressed her lips together. The snob in her wincing at the man’s Manchester accent. She said nothing for a few moments
     in the hope that the silence would unnerve him.
    ‘So I presume,’ she began after half a minute, ‘that in time you’ll remember what happened when you were . . . abducted.’
    Marcus looked wary. ‘I hope so.’ He looked around. ‘I remember this room. French windows . . . and the tree house. Is it still
     there, the tree house?’
    Carol looked him straight in the eye. ‘Adrian says his parents always employed help in the house. What’s to say that you haven’t
     learned all the things you know about this house and family from someone who worked here?’
    But Adrian was seized by a sudden impulse to defend the man who was looking so crestfallen, so confused, like someone who’d
     been invited to a party to be insulted for the amusement of his host. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Look at Marcus. Can’t
     you see how alike we are? There’s no question of it . . . ’
    But Carol wasn’t giving up. ‘Marcus, are you willing to take a DNA test . . . just to prove it once and for all?’
    The look of relief on the visitor’s face was unmistakable. ‘I was going to suggest it myself,’ he said without a hint of hesitation.
    ‘I’ve looked it up on the Internet and there are several firms who promise results in a few days if you go for their premium
     service.’She looked Marcus in the eye. ‘Have the police contacted you yet? They told Adrian they would?’
    Marcus nodded. ‘Someone called round at the guesthouse but I was out. I’ll give him a call tomorrow.’ He didn’t sound as if
     he was looking forward to the prospect. Perhaps, Carol thought, he had had some unpleasant encounters with the police in the
     course of his mysterious life.
    And as far as she was concerned, that was the six-million-dollar question: what had the man who claimed to be Marcus Fallbrook
     been doing between the time he’d disappeared from his family’s lives at the age of seven and the moment he turned up out of
     the blue at Mirabilis yesterday?
    Carol Fallbrook wouldn’t rest until she knew the truth.
    Wesley Peterson wasn’t used to hanging around pubs on his own and when he approached the bar of the Bentham Arms, he felt
     rather like a lonely child at a party where he knew nobody and nobody wanted to know him.
    Clutching his warrant card in his hand, ready to show it to the bar staff if any awkward questions were asked, he looked around
     the pub. It seemed a cosy establishment; pleasingly old-fashioned with an array of pewter tankards, horse brasses and hunting
     prints. A country pub with a large fireplace which, being the back end of summer, was filled with dusty pine cones rather
     than roaring logs. It was in this home from home that ex-DCI Houldsworth reputedly held court and Wesley scanned the lounge
     bar for anyone who had the tell-tale look of a jaded ex-copper.
    But halfway through his search, he spotted a familiar face. Neil Watson was sitting at a battered oak table in the corner
     of the bar, surrounded by a group of people who Wesley assumed from their appearance were Neil’s fellow archaeologists. Neil
     was sipping beer from a pint glass and looked completely relaxed, a man in his natural habitat.
    After a few seconds Neil looked up and spotted him, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Hi, Wes. Come and join us.’ As Wesley
     approached, Neil spoke to his colleagues who had all assumed vaguely welcoming expressions. ‘You know, Wes Peterson, don’t
     you? He did archaeology with me at Exeter. He’s a copper now but don’t hold that against him.’ The group made noises of acknowledgment
     and