Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  That night in her well-appointed hotel room Grace didn’t sleep well. She was turning over in her mind the questions she was planning to ask and rehearsing how she was going to bring up the subject at the forefront of her mind.

  She kept telling herself she was a professional woman at the top of her game, not the sort of person who saw things that weren’t there. But when she met Maritia the next day she knew she would be tempted to tell her what she thought she’d seen.

  As she dozed she saw herself leaning over their restaurant table and whispering the words: ‘You’re not going to believe this, Maritia, but I’ve seen a dead man.’

  3

  The CCTV footage from the police station entrance showed a dark figure in a hoodie dropping the plastic bag on the steps and scurrying off as though the devil himself was after him. Gerry thought it was probably a man but beneath that hood it could have been anybody.

  The fingerprint results from the bag containing the skull proved more helpful. When Wesley arrived at the station first thing the next morning he made himself comfortable and scanned the message that had just come in. Clear prints had been found on the bag – and those prints were on record.

  Gerry Heffernan was already in his office. When Wesley had first transferred to Tradmouth from the Met, the DCI’s timekeeping had become erratic in the aftermath of his wife Kathy’s death. But now Joyce Barnes had moved in with him he usually turned up before the rest of the team. Rachel reckoned Joyce had been a beneficial influence and Wesley agreed. She’d put a stop to the gnawing loneliness the boss had tried so hard to conceal while he’d been on his own.

  He gave a token knock on Gerry’s office door which he usually kept open so as to hear what was going on in the main office.

  ‘Tell me we’ve got a lead on this bastard, Wes,’ Gerry said, looking up from the paperwork that seemed to have multiplied on his desk overnight.

  ‘Which particular bastard are we talking about?’ Wesley said, sitting down opposite Gerry. ‘We have quite a few on our books.’

  ‘This burglar who’s been targeting the elderly. Nine cases, all within a ten-mile radius of Neston. No prints or DNA and nothing on CCTV. Mind you, he likes to take jewellery which means he’ll need to get rid of it sooner or later,’ Gerry added with a note of optimism.

  ‘We’re keeping an eye on all the pawnbrokers and jewellers in the area.’

  Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘Unless he goes further afield to get rid of it.’

  ‘He’s bound to slip up eventually,’ said Wesley, eager to change the subject. ‘You know that skull someone left on our doorstep?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The bag it was found in has been examined for fingerprints and there’s a lovely clear set belonging to an old friend of ours. Glen Crowther.’

  Gerry snorted. ‘Glen “someone must have fitted me up” Crowther. I presume he’s out.’

  ‘Yes, and word has it he’s kept his nose clean since his last stay in one of Her Majesty’s hotels. You’ve always had a soft spot for Glen, haven’t you?’

  ‘Me?’ Gerry squirmed in his seat, as though he’d been caught doing something shameful. ‘Well, I admit I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. While I was stationed in Morbay I had dealings with his old mum and she was a nightmare: booze, drugs, dodgy men – you name it, she did it. And Glen’s never used violence, which is a point in his favour.’

  Wesley was only too aware that the boss tried to hide his softer side from both villains and underlings. But it was there alright. ‘I’ve heard he’s working on a building site. When I track him down would you like to come with me … renew old acquaintance?’

  Gerry shook his head. ‘No, Wes, I’ll leave it to you. Take Rach. She’s looking a bit peaky these days so the fresh air might do her good. Any news on the skull itself?’

  ‘It’s with Colin Bowman at the moment. There were traces of soil attached to it which suggests it’s been buried at some point. An osteoarchaeologist or a forensic anthropologist will be able to tell us more once Colin’s finished with it.’

  ‘Think we should start going through our missing persons files?’

  ‘Let’s see what the experts say first.’ Wesley paused. ‘I’m wondering if it could be connected to that phone call to the radio station. The caller said bones. What if someone’s sent us a sample? And where’s the rest of the body, that’s what I want to know.’

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  31st August 1666

  Up pretty early at seven of the clock, roused by the necessity to leave for Devonshire on the morrow which, I am told, is a wild place.

  My wife’s tooth is a little better, thanks to the poultice, but she desires somebody to bear her company while I am away. I say she shows too much familiarity towards our servants and she complains this is because she lacks other company.

  I hear there is fresh sickness in Deptford and Greenwich so I begged her to accompany me to Devonshire, but she says she has no wish to travel there for when she met my cousin Reuben she had no liking for him and his Puritan ways. I said that if Reuben is dead as they say this will not matter as she will not have to converse with him. She made no reply then when I packed my things she began to cry and begged me to stay, saying my journey will be in vain for I have no prospect of inheriting my cousin’s estate which will go to his young son. I told her that although my efforts will bestow no monetary benefit upon us, I feel obliged to put all in order for Reuben’s widow and his fatherless child.

  There is also the matter of ensuring the guilty are punished for Reuben’s savage murder as the law demands.

  4

  According to Glen Crowther’s probation officer he’d found himself a job at the new holiday village development about two miles outside Tradmouth.

  He was driving up the hill, heading out of town with Rachel in the passenger seat, when she broke the amicable silence. ‘Strangefields Farm. That’s where that serial killer, Jackson Temples, used to live.’

  A distant and unpleasant memory emerged from the hazy recesses of Wesley’s mind. ‘That’s right. I remember now.’

  He’d first heard the name Strangefields Farm while he was working in London, a brand-new fast-track graduate in the Met’s Art and Antiques Unit, fresh from university and still wet behind the ears. The media had made much of the fact that Strangefields Farm stood on ‘Dead Man’s Lane’. The name had been a gift to many a sub-editor at the time and now Wesley recalled the headlines – THE KILLER ON DEAD MAN’S LANE.

  The circumstances of the case had appealed to journalism’s more lurid side. The victims had been teenage girls lured to an isolated farmhouse by an artist called Jackson Temples who’d set up a studio in the house he’d inherited from his late parents. The unfortunate girls had become household names for a few short weeks until the press moved on to some fresh horror.

  Temples had persuaded them to model for him and they’d been flattered at the prospect of being immortalised on canvas. But when the images Temples had created of his victims were revealed to a horrified public in court, the strange and, in the opinion of the prosecution, perverted paintings had helped to secure his conviction.

  A number of girls had gone to the farmhouse and had come to no harm, posing for their portraits and emerging unscathed. Four girls, however, hadn’t been so lucky and by the time Wesley had joined Tradmouth CID, Jackson Temples was safely behind bars and his exploits old news.

  Wesley knew Rachel would have lived locally at the time and when he asked her what she remembered about the case she gave a visible shudder.

  ‘I was only fourteen when it happened and my parents still thought of me as a child which, looking back, I was. They thought the subject of Jackson Temples was too unpleasant for my delicate ears.’

  Wesley couldn’t help smiling. The Rachel he knew was anything but delicate.

  ‘Anyway, I remember reading in the local paper that a girl called Carrie Bullen had been attac
ked and left for dead. Then about a week later the body of a girl called Nerys Harred was found washed up on the river bank near the castle. At first they thought the killer came from Morbay because that’s where the girls had last been seen. The Strangefields connection wasn’t discovered until much later.’

  ‘You remember a lot about it.’

  ‘It was the talk of my school. You know what teenagers are like.’

  Before Wesley could ask more questions they’d turned into Dead Man’s Lane, a winding road lined with tall hedgerows, just wide enough for two vehicles to pass. He slowed down, driving at a crawl, looking for the entrance. To his left he noticed an old cob cottage with lichen-stained walls, half hidden by the greenery that had grown up around it, like a witch’s house from a fairy tale. Half the roof tiles had gone, revealing skeletal rafters beneath, and a pair of pigeons, presumably the only living residents, flew out of their nest by the crumbling chimney. The side facing the road was windowless as though the little house was hiding itself from passers-by and a few yards away a white post protruded from the narrow grass verge, the name Dead Man’s Lane painted in stark black against the clean white background.

  He brought the unmarked police car to a halt beside a pair of large gateposts, each topped by a stone lion, so worn down by centuries of Devon weather that the once-impressive beasts now looked more like domestic cats.

  He turned to Rachel. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Course I am. Why wouldn’t I be? In fact I’m curious in a gruesome sort of way. The girl who survived, Carrie, led the police here and if she hadn’t lived who knows how many more he’d have killed. A fisherman found her on the river bank at Derenham with a severe head injury and suffering from hypothermia. Temples had tried to strangle her like the others but he hadn’t made a good job of it. Still, she was the first so … ’

  ‘He hadn’t perfected his technique?’

  Rachel gave a grim smile. ‘You could put it like that. She was in a coma for a couple of months but when she eventually came round she gave the evidence that led to his capture. In the meantime Nerys was found dead and a couple more girls had gone missing. Their bodies were never found but there was evidence he’d killed them too.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  ‘Their clothes were found at the house.’ She paused. ‘Funny how some girls came here and left unharmed. Some even gave evidence for the defence at Temples’ trial; said they hadn’t seen anything suspicious.’

  ‘Maybe they just had a lucky escape. Wonder why he chose those particular victims?’

  ‘There was a theory going round that they were all the same type but I don’t know how true that was. From the photographs in the papers at the time three were really stunning with long dark hair but one was quite … ordinary, so that theory could be rubbish. Another story went round that he only killed when the moon was full, which meant girls were safe if they went there any other time.’

  ‘Sounds far-fetched but you never know. Do they know what happened to the girls who were never found?’

  ‘At the trial it was said that he dumped the last three victims in the river at high tide in the hope that their bodies would be washed out to sea. He’d once been in a sailing club at school so they said he knew about tides. The final two victims were never found, although a skull was caught in the nets of a trawler about ten years ago and dental records confirmed that it belonged to one of them – Jacky Burns. The rest of her’ll be down there somewhere. Who knows, she might be found one day – along with the last girl he killed. Gemma Pollinger her name was.’ She paused. ‘Unless the skeleton the caller to the radio station said he found is hers. And the skull … ’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it belonged to a young woman so you could be right. We won’t know for sure until the lab conducts tests. How long did Temples get?’

  ‘Thirty years minimum. He always refused to admit his guilt so he won’t be getting out any time soon.’ For a few moments she said nothing, then ‘I think the boss worked on the case. But he never talks about it.’

  Wesley switched on the engine again and drove slowly up the potholed drive. He could see signs of construction all around; the foundations of small rectangular buildings dotted around a large Jacobean house. He’d expected a humble farmhouse but at some point in its history this building had been more than that – the home of a prosperous yeoman farmer, perhaps, or even a small manor house.

  He climbed out of the car and stood looking at the house.

  ‘Do you think some places are evil, Wes?’ Rachel said softly.

  ‘They demolished Cromwell Street and Rillington Place, which is understandable. But this place is Grade Two star-listed so you can’t just go knocking it down. Even so, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to live in a house associated with something like that.’

  ‘Someone obviously does, or rather they’ll be spending their holidays here. No expense spared by the look of it.’

  ‘Better find Glen Crowther,’ said Wesley, feeling they were getting sidetracked by the old case, although he knew there was a chance the two matters were connected.

  There was a notice by the studded oak door saying in large white letters against a blue background that hard hats must be worn at all times. Wesley could hear hammering and drilling in the distance so he shouted at the top of his voice and waited. Eventually a small man with a wizened face appeared and Wesley held out his warrant card.

  ‘We’re looking for Glen Crowther. Is he here?’

  The man rolled his eyes. ‘I told the gaffer he’d be trouble. What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing as far as we know. We’d just like a word, that’s all.’ Wesley suddenly felt guilty, hoping Crowther wouldn’t lose his job as a result of their visit. For ex-cons employment could be hard to come by.

  The man disappeared into the dusty depths of the house and a couple of minutes later a lanky young man in a stained sweatshirt appeared, his hands thrust in the pockets of jeans that looked as if they were about to fall down. He paused to hoist them up before approaching the two detectives warily, as though he feared they’d come to arrest him.

  ‘What is it?’ he said in a smoker’s rasp.

  ‘Glen Crowther?’

  The man looked as though he was considering denying it. Then he nodded.

  ‘We’d like a quick word. Nothing to worry about,’ said Wesley, aware that he sounded like a doctor reassuring a patient that it wasn’t bad news. Because his close family were all doctors he suspected he’d absorbed the bedside manner in his formative years.

  Crowther stepped outside the building. ‘Will this take long? The gaffer’s on my back the whole time and he won’t like—’

  ‘We won’t keep you longer than necessary.’

  Rachel was carrying the green carrier bag, protected from contamination inside a transparent evidence bag. ‘This was found on the steps of our police station with a human skull inside. Do you recognise it?’

  ‘What makes you think it’s got anything to do with me?’

  ‘Your prints are all over it.’

  A look of terror passed across Crowther’s face. ‘I didn’t do nothing. Honest. I just found it. It was hidden in an old cupboard in the cellar. The door was all sealed up with paint – hadn’t been opened for years by the look of it – but when I got it open I saw it sitting there grinning at me. I didn’t tell the other lads ’cause I know what the cops are like once they start sniffing around and taping things off.’ He swallowed hard. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Rachel.

  ‘I put it in a bag and I didn’t know what to do with it. Then I was passing the police station on my way home so … ’

  ‘You thought you’d leave it to us to sort out.’

  Crowther nodded eagerly, as though he was relieved that Wesley understood.

  ‘Can you show me where you found it?’

  After he’d handed them the regulation hard hats, Crowther led them into an entrance hall dominated by a wide oak staircase which must have been
impressive in its day – and would be again once it had been cleaned up and a layer or three of beeswax had been applied. The rest of the hallway, however, had been stripped back to the bare brick. If the developer knew about the house’s history, he or she was making every effort to ensure that no reminder was left of the time when Jackson Temples had committed his crimes there.

  Crowther led them across the uneven oak floorboards to a door beneath the staircase. Here a set of worn stone steps led down to a cellar and once at the bottom Crowther pointed to an old built-in cupboard in the corner. ‘That’s where it was. You’d think it would be crammed with stuff

  but the skull was the only thing in it. Cupboards are useful. My mum says you can’t have too many cupboards.’

  Wesley couldn’t help smiling, remembering what Gerry had said about Crowther’s mum. She might be a nightmare but her son was clearly fond of her even so. ‘Your mum’s right. You haven’t found any more human remains?’

  ‘I would have said if I had.’ Crowther frowned as though something was worrying him. ‘Mind you, we haven’t finished in the cellar yet.’

  ‘So it wasn’t you who rang the radio station?’

  Crowther shook his head vigorously and Wesley was sure he was telling the truth. Then he gave a theatrical shudder. ‘This place used to belong to a murderer so I wouldn’t be surprised if he buried lots of bodies down there.’

  Wesley caught Rachel’s eye. ‘Might be worth having a look.’

  5

  When an old friend calls out of the blue and asks you out for lunch, it’s normally a cause of delight. But when Maritia Fitzgerald sat opposite Grace Compton in the Maria Bella Italian restaurant on the embankment, at a table with a river view, she suspected she had more on her mind than catching up with the latest gossip. Grace looked worried and Maritia’s instincts told her something was wrong.

  The strange confession that Grace had made once they’d finished their starters stuck in Maritia’s mind throughout the meal. ‘I saw someone I recognised in Tradmouth yesterday. Only it couldn’t have been him, because he’s meant to be dead.’