Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  18

  The link between Linda Payne’s murder and Jackson Temples’ MO nagged at the back of Wesley’s mind. Jackson Temples, who’d killed and mutilated young women with no apparent motive … other than a love of killing.

  The incident room was buzzing with activity. Linda Payne’s contacts were being traced, interviewed and eliminated but so far none of the team’s enquiries had thrown up anything helpful. However, it was early days and there were people Wesley wanted to speak to himself; particularly Linda’s assistant, Jen, and the Harbourside Players.

  When he sat down at his desk he found a brown envelope lying on top of the house-to-house reports he’d asked to see. When he tore it open he found it contained the report on Bert Cummings’ bungalow he’d been promised earlier in the day. The CSIs had finished their examination of the premises and once Wesley had read through their findings he was disappointed to see that Gerry’s office was empty.

  ‘Where’s the boss?’ he asked Trish, who was standing with her hands pressed to her back as though it was aching.

  ‘Gone to see the chief super,’ she said. ‘Should be back any moment.’

  Deciding not to wait for Gerry’s return, Wesley called for attention. Everyone stopped what they were doing, apart from those who were on the phone, and turned to face him.

  ‘The report on Bert Cummings’ bungalow has just come in and you’ll all be pleased to know we’ve got a fingerprint match.’

  Danny Brice could have kicked himself for being so careless. Although a lot of people he’d hung around with in the past had said the police were useless, he knew they had all sorts of fancy scientific ways of getting every scrap of evidence from a crime scene. And Bert’s bungalow was a crime scene – he’d realised that as soon as he’d seen the wounds on the old man’s chest.

  The squat above the empty shop on the edge of Neston town centre was short on luxury but there was electricity and running water. Its last incarnation had been as a whole-food store which had relocated to more central premises a year ago. Since then it had remained unoccupied, although the previous owners hadn’t bothered turning the water off so when Stag had got in through the dodgy back door and did something mysterious with the electricity meter, the place was good to go.

  Danny was wary of Stag and his girlfriend, who was posh and judgemental, damning anybody by calling them bourgeois or, worse still, suburban. However, they’d offered him a roof over his head when they’d seen him begging in the town centre with Barney and they’d made a fuss of the dog. Danny suspected it had been Barney rather than himself who’d been responsible for his place in the squat but he said nothing and kept his head down.

  He stroked Barney’s head and the dog looked up at him adoringly. It was good to have someone who loved you and even better when that love was unconditional. Barney was of mixed stock, a touch of Labrador here and a hint of Jack Russell there, but this lack of pedigree didn’t matter to Danny. It was personality that counted; and loyalty. Danny had been loyal to Kevin, the man whose name he’d assumed, although that had been easy because he’d loved Kevin more than he’d ever loved any human being before. Then Kevin had betrayed him by walking into a car one rainy night in Toronto. Once Danny had realised his lover was dead he’d fled from the scene in panic because a lifetime of dodging authority had made him wary of involvement. He’d gone back to the room they’d shared and packed up his things, knowing it was time to go home to England. There had been nothing he could do for Kevin; his Canadian adventure was over.

  He liked Devon because he’d once lived with foster parents in Topsham and he’d been happy there; possibly the happiest he’d ever been during his turbulent childhood. Knowing Neston’s reputation for alternative lifestyles, he’d headed there to seek out a squat with people who didn’t ask too many questions. Then he’d looked for the grandfather Kevin had spoken of so often; the only member of his family he’d felt close to after his parents had reacted badly to the news that he was gay. Since his parents had thrown him out at the age of seventeen, the real Kevin had only spoken to his grandfather on the phone long distance, which meant that Bert hadn’t seen him for years, and luckily he’d accepted Danny without question.

  When Danny had been treated as a much-loved grandson, a pleasure he’d never before experienced, he’d seen no harm in maintaining the deception if it made the old man happy. Besides, Bert was an interesting man who’d once been a teacher and for only the second time in his life – the first being with the real Kevin – Danny had felt as though he truly belonged.

  He could have taken advantage of the situation and helped himself to any cash Bert left lying around but as he came to know the old man better, he rediscovered the conscience he’d forgotten he possessed. He’d enjoyed his visits to Bert’s bungalow and was always careful never to go while his carers were there. Then came the dreadful day when he’d found Bert dead with marks of violence on his wasted body.

  Danny kept thinking of the person he’d seen at the bungalow door a few days before he made his terrible discovery. But he couldn’t go to the police. The less he had to do with the police the better.

  19

  Wesley took the seat opposite Gerry, watching the DCI’s face and thinking that he looked strained, somehow older. He’d been looking that way since Linda Payne’s body was found, as though the discovery had revived bad memories.

  ‘So who is Danny Brice?’

  ‘In care for most of his life. Mother had a drug problem and father was a ship that passed in the night. Couple of convictions for shoplifting in his teens then he went off our radar until now, when his prints have turned up all over Bert Cummings’ bungalow.’

  Wesley thought for a moment. ‘One of the carers we’ve spoken to said Bert talked about his grandson, Kevin, visiting. Trouble is Bert had also told her that Kevin had been killed earlier this year. Car accident in Toronto. She thought it was a sign of Bert’s mind going so she took no notice.’ He took out his notebook and scribbled something down. ‘I’ll get someone to check it out. What about the other elderly people who’ve been burgled? Any sign of Brice’s prints on their premises?’

  Gerry shook his head.

  ‘If the grandson wasn’t a figment of Bert’s imagination, my money’s on him being Danny Brice and if Bert found out he wasn’t who he said he was … We need to trace Brice as a matter of urgency. Any idea where he could be?’

  ‘Afraid not. There’s no up-to-date picture of him in the records so we don’t even know what he looks like nowadays. He’s no relatives – although as he was in foster care in Topsham for a while it might be worth checking there. I’ll get someone onto it.’

  Gerry shuffled some of the papers on his desk, as though he was trying to distract himself from the overwhelming amount of information that was coming in.

  ‘What’s wrong, Gerry?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Wesley knew this was a lie so he waited.

  Gerry gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s the Linda Payne case and this skull they found at Strangefields Farm. I thought the Temples case was ancient history but Linda’s MO seems identical and that’s really worrying me. Someone could be out there copying him – maybe someone obsessed with the original case.’

  ‘I’ve been bringing myself up to speed on Temples,’ said Wesley. ‘He never confessed to any of the murders, did he?’

  ‘Didn’t need to. The evidence was overwhelming. All the girls’ clothing was found at Strangefields, obviously kept as trophies. Then there was Carrie Bullen, the one who got away. She identified him.’

  ‘We need to speak to her.’

  ‘She killed herself a year later which as far as I’m concerned means she’s another of his victims.’

  ‘It might be helpful to speak to her family.’ Wesley paused. ‘And I think we should have a word with the man himself.’

  Gerry’s eyes widened.

  ‘You think the skull belongs to Gemma Pollinger, don’t you?’

  Gerry gave a reluctant n
od.

  ‘Temples needs to be interviewed but you don’t have to do it, Gerry. I can take Rach. If he’s killed women it might be good psychology to include her. It’ll be interesting to see how he reacts.’

  ‘He not only killed them, Wes, he destroyed their faces – beautiful lasses they were and all.’

  ‘Where’s he being held?’

  ‘Gumton Gate near Manchester. Category A.’

  Wesley looked at his watch. ‘Pity. Dartmoor would have been more convenient.’

  ‘Not high enough security these days. He’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘Even so, he couldn’t have killed Linda Payne.’

  ‘You didn’t see the paintings he did of his victims,’ said Gerry with a scowl. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past him.’

  At that moment one of the DCs seconded to the investigation gave a token tap on Gerry’s open door. He was middle-aged with a beer belly and eyes that had seen it all before.

  ‘Thought you’d like to have a look at this, sir,’ he said before placing a photograph album on Gerry’s desk. ‘The search team found it in the loft at Linda Payne’s cottage.’

  Wesley thanked the man and picked up the album, flicking through the faded snaps of a younger Linda with an older woman he assumed was her mother. However, when he turned the final page he saw a teenage Linda with a short skirt and long wavy hair. She was standing outside a building Wesley recognised as Strangefields Farm and a much taller young man in his twenties had his arm around her shoulders.

  He stared at the picture for a while before passing the album to Gerry. ‘Is this who I think it is?’

  ‘Well, well, well. Her name didn’t come up in the original investigation but it looks as though our Linda Payne was one of Jackson Temples’ girls.’

  20

  Joe Hamer, in common with many developers Grace Compton had worked with, was demanding. He’d changed his mind again about the design for the proposed reception building at Strangefields Farm. He wanted it larger and she’d had to explain gently that they’d pushed the planning authorities to the limit as it was. He’d also told her that someone from the County Archaeological Unit was making waves because he’d seen the new plans and discovered something on an old map that might be historically significant. The archaeologist was insisting on trenches being dug on the reception building site which would hold up the work and, according to Hamer, time was money. Grace had heard that phrase many times before and she knew the situation needed to be dealt with by charm and flattery so she smiled sympathetically and said the sooner the archaeologists started, the sooner they’d be out of his hair.

  As she left the meeting her thoughts turned to Wesley Peterson. She was impatient to meet him again and curious to see Pam, the woman he’d chosen to marry; curious and maybe a little jealous, although she’d never admit that, even to herself. She’d made her choice years ago and her work had left little room for serious relationships – until she’d met Dale Keyes, the man she hadn’t been able to get out of her mind.

  She made her way along the embankment, stopping by the bench where she and Wesley had eaten fish and chips earlier that day. She ran her fingers over the wood, which felt damp and cold beneath her touch, wondering if her sighting of Dale had just been a pretext to see Wesley again. Now time had passed she was beginning to think she must have been mistaken because if Dale Keyes hadn’t died in Thailand he would surely have been in touch. She’d once heard that everybody has a doppelgänger somewhere so it was possible she’d seen Dale’s; a doppelgänger with the same dress sense and the same way of walking.

  She walked on by the river, breathing in the seaweed-scented air and listening to the calming slap of water against the pontoons. She could see the hills rising above the town, lush and green, and the view out to sea framed by castle-topped cliffs. This place was very different from London with its traffic and crowds and for the first time she understood why Wesley had chosen to make the move.

  She’d noticed some expensive clothes shops in the town along with a selection of interesting art galleries so, as her meeting had finished early, she decided to treat herself to an hour of retail therapy, a distraction from work before heading back to the hotel to send emails and pore over plans.

  She passed the square inner harbour she’d heard people call the ‘boat float’, careful to stay away from the unfenced edge and the sheer drop into the water. Small vessels were bobbing there on the high tide as though they were trying to escape their moorings but since maritime matters bored her she hurried towards the shops of Moat Street, down the little alleyway by the Arts Centre where she’d last seen the man she’d mistaken for Dale Keyes.

  She glanced around nervously, half expecting to see him waiting for her in a darkened doorway, but there was no sign of him and when she reached Moat Street she began to scan the shop windows, eager for a distraction from the irritations of work and Joe Hamer’s grandiose ambitions.

  Then she saw him. He was standing inside one of the street’s many art galleries talking to a tall blond woman with a face like a horse. Grace stood in the street for a while watching and hoping he wouldn’t turn and see her. He had more hair than when they’d been together and he’d now acquired a small beard, but she was as certain as she could be that it was him.

  She sensed that it would be wise to go before she was seen. If he’d chosen to ‘die’ then he might be trying to escape something more unpleasant than the money he owed to her partnership.

  Suddenly her certainty wavered. What if she was mistaken? But even if she was right she didn’t feel ready to confront him just yet, so instead she hurried away.

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  5th September 1666

  ‘When are Bess and Harry to come before the judge at the Assizes?’ I asked.

  John and the cook made no answer and I surmised that there was more of the tale to tell. The cook wiped her hands on her apron and looked away as if she could no longer bear to hear the sorry story of her master’s violent death. John meanwhile shifted from foot to foot and looked as fearful as a child threatened with a beating by his schoolmaster.

  ‘Speak up, man,’ I said. ‘If the trial be at Exeter I shall attend to ensure my kinsman is avenged by the law of the land. I feel it is my duty.’

  I spoke the truth for although I had little love for my cousin, I wished to see justice done and the felons hanged as is only right and proper.

  For a long while the man did not answer and I knew he was hiding something from me. I asked him again to say his piece and when he finally spoke it was in a low voice I could barely hear.

  ‘There will be no Exeter trial, sir. For Bess and Harry are dead already. Justice has been done. Our justice. And yet … ’ He looked at the cook, who lowered her eyes like a coy maid.

  ‘What?’ I asked, impatient at the man’s reticence.

  ‘It is said in the town that they still walk. That they do not lie peaceful in their graves and will return to torment us all.’

  21

  It was six thirty and Wesley had already warned Pam that she was unlikely to see him before ten.

  Gerry too had made a call to Joyce. Wesley had wondered whether their relationship would last after she’d turned down his proposal of marriage the previous month. She’d made the excuse that Gerry’s daughter, Rosie, would disapprove of another woman taking her dead mother’s place. But Kathy Heffernan had been dead for some years and, in Wesley’s opinion, Rosie Heffernan was a selfish young woman who used her late mother’s memory to retain control over her doting father. Though Gerry might be tough with his team, as far as the women in his life went he was a pussycat, and Rosie took advantage.

  Wesley liked Joyce. Before Gerry had met her during an investigation he’d been floundering, balancing his chaotic domestic existence with the job. He’d relied heavily on Kathy and some men – indeed some women – struggled on their own.

  Gerry had suggested a takeaway from the Golden
Dragon and a young constable drafted in from Uniform to help with the inquiry was sent out to fetch the order. From the look on the boy’s face, he thought the task beneath him but he didn’t argue as Rachel handed him the list she’d made of everyone’s requirements. She was a natural organiser, which was why she made such a good sergeant.

  While Wesley was waiting for his food he sat at his desk studying the large whiteboard which almost covered the far wall of the office. One side was dedicated to Linda Payne and the other to Bert Cummings and Wesley wondered whether there could really be a link between their two cases. As far as he could see the two victims weren’t acquainted and had nothing in common. If it weren’t for the fact that they’d been killed within days of each other – and Colin’s observation that a similar weapon might have been used – it would have been assumed that the investigations were separate, never to be connected.

  On an easel in the centre Gerry had placed another whiteboard, this time bearing pictures of the skull found at Strangefields Farm. The name Jackson Temples stood out in large black letters, together with an oversized question mark. Wesley stared at the board with its comments and photographs, including the one they’d found of the killer with a young Linda Payne. He was deep in thought until Trish Walton’s voice broke the spell.

  ‘The Harbourside Players are having a rehearsal tonight at the Arts Centre. If we want to see them all together … ’

  ‘Thanks Trish. Good idea.’ He imagined the director would resent the intrusion, especially as the leading role would have to be recast, but that wasn’t Wesley’s problem. The Harbourside Players had, presumably, been the last people to see Linda alive – apart from her killer.

  As the team ate the Chinese takeaway at their desks, the smell of food wafted over the office. It would probably linger until the following day but if the chief super complained, Gerry could be relied on to tell her that criminals weren’t brought to justice on empty stomachs.