Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  Once the takeaway containers had been disposed of Wesley glanced at Rachel’s desk, where she was trawling through statements from the elderly burglary victims, looking for anything they’d missed that might connect the culprit with Bert Cummings’ murder.

  She must have sensed she was being watched because she looked up and smiled. Wesley went over to her. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Bert’s carers have been spoken to again. One of them said he used to teach her at Neston High School but before that she thought he’d taught at some private school. His subject was maths and she reckoned he was very clever. Apart from him insisting that his dead grandson, Kevin, had been visiting him, she said nothing unusual had happened in the weeks leading up to his death.’

  Wesley gave her a weary smile. ‘I’m going to speak to Linda Payne’s fellow thespians. They’re rehearsing tonight.’

  ‘They’ve all made statements, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but they didn’t tell us much. Everyone in the company liked Linda and there was never a cross word. No back-biting, no jealousies or disagreements, which sounds too good to be true.’

  ‘You don’t believe them?’

  ‘I want to speak to them individually – find out what makes the group tick. Fancy coming with me?’

  ‘Doesn’t the boss want to go?’

  ‘I haven’t asked him.’

  ‘Afraid they’ll be offended by his cutting wit?’

  ‘Something like that. Any whiff of pretentiousness and he won’t be able to help himself. And as you once moved in the world of amateur theatricals … ’

  ‘That was a long time ago and I’ve got a mountain of paperwork but … ’ She stood up. ‘OK. Lead on.’

  ‘Macduff?’

  ‘That’s a quote from the Scottish play. Don’t tempt fate.’ She laughed and snatched her jacket off the back of her chair.

  ‘What are you doing about your wedding flowers?’ Wesley asked as they walked the short distance to the Arts Centre next door to the police station.

  ‘Jen claims she can still do them, although I’m having my doubts.’

  Once they reached the Arts Centre the fresh-faced young man on the reception desk told them the Harbourside Players were rehearsing in room twelve. They made their way down a corridor lined with pale wooden doors and, without bothering to knock, Wesley pushed the door open and found a dozen or so people sitting in a circle, scripts in hand.

  The man who rose to his feet as they entered was in his late sixties with the lined face of a habitual smoker and grey hair tied back in a neat ponytail. He wore a pork-pie hat and a scarf draped artistically around his neck. He possessed the nervous energy of someone who rarely relaxed; someone who always liked to be in charge of some new project or other.

  ‘This is a private rehearsal.’

  The words were said with authority. You have no right to be here: get out. Wesley immediately put him right and watched the man’s expression change from challenge to solemnity.

  ‘You should have let me know you were coming,’ the man said with a hint of reproach. He held out his hand. ‘Lance Pembry. Director.’

  Wesley shook his hand and Rachel did likewise. ‘We’re sorry to disturb your rehearsal, Mr Pembry, but we need to speak to everyone about Linda Payne. I take it you’ve all heard the news?’

  ‘Of course. A constable visited me yesterday … as I was one of the last people to see her. We’ve already given statements.’ He looked round the group for support and a few people nodded nervously.

  ‘I know. I’ve read them. But I’d like to get a few things straight.’ He looked round the group. ‘Who would you say knew her best?’

  The actors looked from one to the other, as though nobody wanted to admit to being Linda’s friend. Eventually a woman raised her hand. She had dark, almost black, hair and a generous mouth which formed itself into a nervous smile.

  ‘We had a lot of scenes together – I’m playing her serving woman, Cariola – and we used to get together to go through our lines. My name’s Pauline Howe by the way,’ she added, waiting for Rachel to write it down in her notebook.

  A youngish man put his hand up next. He was tall and had a pointed beard that made him look a little diabolical. His dark complexion hinted at black ancestry somewhere in his family tree and his eyes were a deep brown. He was handsome and Wesley guessed that he knew it.

  The young man introduced himself as ‘Rich Vernon. Playing Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria … the Duchess’s brother. The villain of the piece, I suppose you could say. Linda was fantastic. Really nice.’

  Wesley recognised a platitude when he heard one and there was a distinct lack of sincerity in Vernon’s voice. He hoped his performance as Ferdinand was more convincing.

  ‘Who’s playing Bosola, the character who orders the strangulation of the duchess and Cariola?’

  A wiry middle-aged man raised a nervous hand.

  ‘And the executioner?’

  A thickset man with a shaven head raised his hand. Wesley thought he looked familiar, then he remembered that he’d seen him aboard the passenger ferry – one of the crew.

  ‘You know the play, Inspector.’ Pembry sounded surprised.

  ‘It’s one of my wife’s favourites.’ He hesitated, smiling. ‘Although I must admit that after a day at the police station all that murder doesn’t appeal too much as a form of entertainment.’

  A couple of the cast laughed nervously.

  Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I realise now’s not a convenient time—’

  ‘You’re right, Inspector. It’s not convenient. ‘We’re having a read-through before Pauline takes over Linda’s part, just to get her used to the lines.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ He looked round the company hopefully. ‘So if you let Sergeant Tracey know when you’ll be available, we’ll endeavour to speak to you all at a more suitable time.’ He saw Pembry relax, as though he’d had a stay of execution, but the director’s relief was premature. ‘Although now we’re here we might as well seize the opportunity of speaking to you, Mr Pembry. And then Ms Howe if it’s not too much trouble. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’ Wesley had turned on the charm, so reasonable that Pembry would have appeared churlish if he refused.

  ‘Can we carry on with the second scene of act five?’ said a woman sitting next to ‘Bosola’. I need some practice with the lines.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, Monica,’ Pembry said pointedly, his eyes on Rachel as though he was assessing her suitability for a role. He turned back to his actors. ‘Carry on and I’ll be back soon.’

  Wesley followed Pembry to an office a couple of doors away. The director took a seat behind the desk with the confidence of innocence.

  Wesley had Pembry’s routine statement in the document case he was carrying and he sat there studying it for a while before he asked his first question. Pembry had said he’d been with everyone else when Linda left the Arts Centre after the last rehearsal she’d attended and that had been the last time he’d seen her. Wesley wondered whether this was true.

  ‘You knew Linda well?’

  ‘Ours was a working relationship, Inspector. I came here from London a couple of years ago after a long career in the professional theatre. My wife has always loved Devon so when the time came for me to retire … ’ He sighed. ‘I thought it was only right to give something back to the community I’d chosen to join so I set up a company that would tackle challenging productions and rise to the highest standards. My actors are amateurs but I’m constantly amazed at what they can do with proper guidance. I must say I’m finding it as satisfying as working in the London theatre.’

  ‘Was Linda talented?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have been given the title role otherwise. As I said, I insist on the highest standards.’

  ‘The rope you use in the production – where did it come from?’

  ‘Linda brought it in. I think she mentioned it came from her shop, although I can’t be sure.’

  ‘
Would anyone else know?’

  Pembry shrugged his shoulders theatrically.

  ‘Did you ever see Linda away from rehearsals?’

  ‘You’re asking if I was having an affair with her.’ He glanced at Rachel. ‘The answer to that question is certainly not. There’s no casting couch in the Harbourside Players, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m sure there isn’t, sir. Did Linda have any particular friends in the company? Anyone she saw outside rehearsals? Apart from Pauline Howe?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  Wesley thanked him for his time and asked him to send Pauline in. They’d learned nothing from the director and he was starting to feel despondent. Perhaps there was nothing more to learn there.

  After a token knock Pauline entered the room, hovering nervously near the door before taking a seat as requested. She looked tense, picking at a jagged fingernail. Wesley smiled, hoping to put her at her ease.

  ‘What do you know about Linda’s background?’ he began.

  ‘She used to live in London but about eighteen months ago she said she got sick of city life and decided to move here. She opened her own florist’s shop in Tradmouth. It was very successful.’

  Wesley wondered whether there’d been a hint of envy in her last statement. Perhaps Pauline had been irritated when Linda boasted of her success. Linda had been the alpha female, the leading lady, while Pauline had played the serving woman. Now it was up to him to get her to reveal all.

  ‘Did she mention any family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she have a man in her life – or men?’

  ‘I saw her going off with Rich Vernon a couple of times. Now she might have been giving him a lift home but … well, he lives in Tradmouth. Walking distance.’ She raised her eyebrows.

  This was something that hadn’t been mentioned in the cast’s bland statements and Wesley felt like a hunter who’d suddenly caught the scent of his prey. ‘You think they were involved?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say. I’m only telling you what I saw.’

  ‘Tell us what happened when you last saw her.’

  ‘She left on her own but … ’

  ‘But?’ Rachel prompted.

  ‘Someone was waiting for her and they walked off together but I couldn’t see properly because it was dark. But Rich had left about five minutes earlier and … well, it was just a figure in the shadows but it certainly looked like him. Right height and build.’

  ‘He’s younger than Linda,’ said Wesley.

  ‘So?’ A smile played on Pauline’s lips.

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  ‘I don’t think so. We really weren’t that close.’

  Wesley suspected there was something she was keeping back but he thanked her and looked at his watch. Rich Vernon could wait until tomorrow. Let him sweat.

  22

  It was almost ten o’clock by the time Wesley arrived home. The children would be in bed because it was school the next day and he hoped Pam would have a bottle of wine open and a glass ready. Then he remembered that Della was still installed in their spare bedroom and would probably have helped herself to his share of the wine, and his brief feeling of optimism faded.

  He let himself in with his key and stood in the hall for a few seconds, listening as the cat, Moriarty, greeted him, tail raised and purring loudly. He picked her up and she enjoyed the attention for a while before wriggling free and dropping elegantly to the floor. He could hear the TV in the living room. The news had just started and from the tone of the newsreader’s voice he could tell it was doom and gloom as usual. When he pushed the door open Pam looked up, but there was something guarded about her greeting and he wondered what was wrong. Della was slumped in the armchair by the window with a halfempty wine glass in her right hand, her two metal crutches propped up beside her.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said before Pam had a chance to open her mouth.

  Pam ignored her mother and stood up. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Not really. We’re a bit overwhelmed with these two murders.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Had a takeaway in the office.’

  ‘Your sister rang. She’s invited us to dinner. Wants to know which night suits us best.’

  ‘Not good timing I’m afraid.’

  Della grunted. ‘I’ve offered to babysit.’

  ‘Thanks, Della but—’

  ‘Pam told me about the skull at the Temples house.’

  He’d been doing his best to put work out of his mind and Della’s words caught him off guard.

  ‘I’m surprised that frightful place hasn’t been knocked down.’

  ‘It’s Grade Two star-listed so demolition isn’t an option.’ Wesley realised his answer was sharp but, after the hard day he’d just had, his patience with his mother-in-law was wearing thin.

  ‘I used to work with one of his victims, you know.’

  This captured Wesley’s attention. ‘One of them taught at your college?’ Before her recent retirement Della had taught at a further education college where, in Wesley’s opinion, she’d become a little too friendly with her students. ‘I thought the victims were all teenagers.’

  ‘Gemma was. She’d just left that posh private school near Neston – didn’t bother staying on to do her A levels and got a job in admin at the college instead. She was nothing to look at, poor girl, but I don’t suppose Temples worried about that. She was female and that’s enough for some men.’ She glared at her son-in-law as though she held him personally responsible for the failings of his sex.

  Wesley ignored her and sat down next to Pam. She seemed unusually quiet and when he asked in a whisper if she was all right she didn’t reply. He went to the kitchen to fetch a wine glass and as he reached for the half-full bottle of red wine on the coffee table in front of him, Della leaned forward and held out her own glass to be refilled.

  ‘So you worked with Gemma Pollinger?’ he said as he poured her drink. ‘The girl whose body was never found.’

  ‘That’s right. I was on the teaching staff so I didn’t have anything to do with her but Hattie who worked in the office got to know her quite well. I think she treated Hattie as a sort of mother figure, seeing her own family were a strange bunch. She boasted to Hattie that she had a new boyfriend who was an artist. Then one day she never turned up at work. Hattie didn’t work out that the artist boyfriend must have been Jackson Temples until it was on the news.’

  Wesley frowned. Like Jacky Burns, until the fishing boat had brought her skull up from the deep, Gemma’s remains had never been found, which meant her family had been denied the chance to lay her to rest. To top that her brother had committed suicide soon after she went missing. Tragedy had followed tragedy. The thought of what her parents must have gone through made Wesley shudder.

  ‘Hattie said Temples must have flattered poor Gemma by asking her to pose for him,’ Della continued. ‘But it seemed he had worse things on his mind than painting young girls in the buff.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Hattie. Do you know where I can find her?’

  Della’s eager expression suddenly turned solemn. ‘She died. Heart attack. She was only two years older than me.’

  Wesley made sympathetic noises, trying to hide his disappointment. It was looking increasingly probable that the skull from Strangefields Farm belonged to Gemma Pollinger but the woman who might be able to supply him with more information about her was dead.

  ‘Jackson Temples used to pick up girls at the Green Parrot in Morbay, according to the papers,’ said Della with a distant smile. ‘I went there a couple of times myself. It was a bit of a dive.’

  ‘Weren’t you a bit old for that sort of thing?’ said Pam sharply.

  ‘You’re as old as you feel,’ Della snapped back before draining her glass.

  Pam ignored her mother and looked at Wesley suspiciously. ‘Are you sure you can’t make Maritia’s dinner? She said she’s inviting an old friend
of hers from London called Grace. She said you’d remember her.’

  Wesley felt the blood rushing to his face. He hadn’t told Pam about his impromptu lunch with Grace and it was probably too late to correct the omission now. He knew if Della got wind of it she wouldn’t be able to resist stirring up trouble, just to relieve the frustration of being immobile.

  ‘I remember her,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to give Maritia my apologies. I’ll be working late for a while, sorry.’ He felt relieved as he said the words.

  ‘That doesn’t stop me going by myself.’

  Wesley smiled a smile that he suspected had turned into a grimace of pain. ‘Of course. If you want.’

  He’d had his suspicions about Grace’s motives and he hoped she wouldn’t make mischief when she got his wife alone and exaggerate what had happened when they’d met. But he had other things to worry about. One of them was Gemma Pollinger and the possibility that they’d found her at last.

  23

  The following morning Rachel called Jen Barrow. She needed to talk to her about Linda’s business dealings – and at the same time she intended to make sure that, in Linda’s absence, her wedding flowers were still on track. The subject had been preying on her mind all night and she wondered if she was in danger of becoming the kind of obsessive bride she’d always thought she’d never be – a Bridezilla trampling over everything and everyone in her rush to get to the altar.

  When Jen answered her mobile Rachel thought she sounded cagey, as though there was something she was hiding. She hoped it had nothing to do with her flowers.

  Then she realised that Jen just sounded exhausted, as though she’d just hauled herself out of bed, and when she said she was still at home Rachel immediately told her she was coming round to speak to her, ending the call before Jen could object. Rachel had a niggling suspicion that something was wrong and she wanted to know what it was.