Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  The skull still nagged at the back of Neil’s mind like an unanswered question, frustrating, irritating. Jemima Baine had promised to get back to him with the results of her analysis as soon as possible but the process was slow and he was feeling impatient.

  He heard someone calling his name and when he looked round he saw that his colleagues who’d been digging in the disturbed trench had jumped out and were staring down into the hole. He made his way over, picking his way carefully across the uneven earth.

  ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Bones. Look human,’ was the answer.

  Neil took out his phone. ‘I’d better call the cops. Any sign of a skull?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then carry on digging.’

  Wesley checked his phone as soon as he reached the station and found a message from Neil. Human remains had been discovered and it looked as though something was missing – namely a skull.

  He returned the call straight away.

  ‘I had a word with the workmen and they’ve admitted that they came across the bones last Monday when they started digging the foundations for the new reception building.’ Neil tutted. ‘Jumping the gun before planning consent was given. Naughty. When they told Hamer what they’d found he told them to fill the hole in again and say nothing, only one of them had a conscience and called the radio station.’

  ‘Why not us?’

  ‘Don’t think he likes the police much.’

  ‘What does Hamer have to say for himself?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Do you think the skull Glen Crowther found in the cellar could belong to the skeleton?’

  ‘Can’t say for certain yet but you don’t find too many headless skeletons, do you?’

  ‘I’ll send someone over.’

  ‘Can’t you come yourself?’ Neil sounded disappointed.

  Wesley looked at his watch. There was a lot to do but this was something he couldn’t resist. Half an hour later he was standing by the trench gazing down at the bones lying stark against the red-brown soil.

  ‘Our friend with the digger said he found a couple of clay pipes near the bones along with the remains of a Bellarmine jug. He’s now handed them over, I’m glad to say. They’re in that tray over there.’ He took a deep breath. ‘In my professional opinion, judging by what was found in the grave, I’d say the bones are old – possibly seventeenth century or thereabouts. And it looks as if the grave had been disturbed long before the digger got to work, probably years ago by someone digging a drain – which might explain how the skull came to be in the house.’

  ‘So the ground might have been dug up in Temples’ day?’

  ‘My money’s on it being a lot earlier than that. Remnants of the drain look Victorian.’

  ‘Hope you’re right.’

  Neil shrugged. ‘Jemima will confirm it in due course.’ He pointed at the headless skeleton. ‘That damage to the ribcage looks as though it was done post-mortem. I think someone removed the heart as well as the head.’

  Neil saw Wesley shudder. ‘It seems colder up here than it does down in town.’

  ‘Views are good though.’

  Wesley looked around, his attention caught by the words on the signpost just visible through the gates. ‘Dead Man’s Lane. Any idea how it got the name?’

  ‘No, but I’ve heard the developers have applied to the council to get it changed back to its original name – Hall Lane.’

  ‘You can’t erase history,’ said Wesley before returning to his car.

  As Neil walked to the gate and watched his friend drive away the sun emerged from behind the clouds, and the shadow of the signpost was cast on the wall of the derelict cottage on the opposite side of the lane. By some freak of the light the shadow took on the shape of a figure, a hanged man dangling from a gallows. Neil stared for a few moments until the sun went behind the clouds and the figure suddenly vanished.

  32

  The brief visit to Neil’s dig had provided Wesley with a welcome distraction from the case – and from his unease about Pam’s distant manner at breakfast that morning. She’d hardly said two words to him and the possibility that she’d had disturbing news from the doctor that she didn’t feel ready to share kept flitting through his mind as he entered the CID office.

  To his disappointment nothing new had come in during his absence. He’d nursed a hope that the appeal for information the press office had put out on the local TV news the previous night might yield something but the only calls received had been from attention-seekers and the lonely who had no information but who needed a listening ear.

  Their investigation into the two murders was moving too slowly for his liking. They needed a breakthrough and there were several people he wanted to speak to if he could find them, especially the girls who’d gone to Strangefields Farm to pose for Temples and emerged unscathed. One name in particular caught his eye: Jane Webster, who’d given evidence for the defence at the trial. She’d been in the sixth form when she’d met Temples, by all accounts a clever girl who’d started studying medicine at Bristol University by the time the case came to court. He’d asked someone to trace her current whereabouts, hoping for the best.

  He also kept thinking of Carrie Bullen, the girl the press called ‘the one that got away’. Unlike Jane, Carrie had been attacked and her experience at Temples’ hands had left her so traumatised that shortly after the trial she’d taken an overdose of sleeping tablets and had never woken up. Even though Temples had been safely behind bars by then, nobody was able to protect her from her own feelings. Trish and Paul had set off for Appledore to visit her sister first thing that morning, but he wasn’t getting his hopes up that she’d be able to tell them anything new.

  Wesley sat down at his desk and made a list, just to get things straight in his mind. The governor of Gumton Gate had given him details of the people who’d corresponded with Temples and one of the DCs had been given the task of tracing them all.

  Then there was the suspicion of Linda’s fellow actor, Pauline Howe, that Linda and the director, Lance Pembry, had known each other in London. This might have been guesswork on her part but if there was history between the pair it needed to be followed up as well.

  ‘Any thoughts on the Bert Cummings case?’

  Gerry’s voice broke Wesley’s train of thought. He turned and saw the DCI standing behind him.

  ‘I’ve asked someone to find out what they can about his background.’

  Gerry sniffed. ‘That’s the thing with the elderly – they all have a lot of history, some good, some bad. Every time I go to a funeral someone gets to their feet and says the little old lady who spent all her time making tea for the Mothers’ Union was an ace decoder at Bletchley Park during the war or the old boy who sat in the corner of the bar making a half of bitter last all night flew in the Battle of Britain. We underestimate the old at our peril, Wes. Besides.’ He grinned. ‘We’ll all be old one day.’

  ‘Bert taught maths, I believe.’

  ‘I hated my maths teacher although I don’t suppose he was murdered because someone once got one out of ten for their quadratic equations.’

  Wesley smiled. Gerry was right. Either Bert’s murder was connected with theft or it was personal, and if it was connected with something in his past they were bound to come across the information sooner or later. Secrets never stayed buried for ever.

  They were interrupted by Trish who’d just arrived back and had made straight for Wesley’s desk, still wearing her coat.

  ‘Sir, Paul and I have seen Carrie Bullen’s sister, Jodie.’

  Wesley thought he could detect a slight blush at the mention of Paul’s name and he wondered if the journey to the other side of Devon had rekindled Trish and Paul’s former feelings for each other. But station romances were none of his business – not unless it affected their work.

  ‘And?’

  ‘When I told her about the similarity between the attack on her sister and Linda Payne’s
murder she asked if Temples was out of prison. I told her he wasn’t. He’s in the clear this time.’

  ‘Did she say anything interesting?’

  ‘She talked about Carrie’s suicide. Said she was beautiful and the disfigurement of her face had been a constant reminder of what happened. In the end she just couldn’t live with it.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything we don’t already know?’

  ‘I asked her if Carrie had told her anything that hadn’t come up in the investigation and the answer was no.’ Trish hesitated. ‘But … she claims to be a psychic.’

  Wesley saw Gerry roll his eyes.

  ‘She said she’d “seen” the attack on Carrie.’

  ‘Seen? How?’

  Wesley ignored the sceptical look on Gerry’s face. ‘What did she claim to see?’

  ‘She said she saw Carrie laughing, even though she was tied up and couldn’t move. And she said she could smell oil paints. Then she felt a pain … here.’ She touched the top of her head. ‘And she saw a rope like a hangman’s noose.’

  ‘She got all that by sitting through the trial,’ said Gerry.

  ‘And she said her attacker had a sweet smell – like perfume.’

  ‘Aftershave?’

  Wesley turned to Gerry. ‘Was that mentioned at the trial?’

  Gerry shook his head.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She said she could feel hatred. Not lust or … just hatred. And jealousy. Then she said: “What if it wasn’t Temples?”’

  ‘Psychic? Sounds like a load of rubbish to me,’ Gerry tutted. ‘The evidence against Temples was overwhelming. It was him all right.’

  Wesley wondered whether the boss’s involvement in the original case was colouring his judgement. He preferred to keep an open mind.

  ‘What if Jodie was lying and Carrie did tell her something before she killed herself?’ he said.

  Gerry snorted. ‘That would mean she’s protecting her sister’s attacker and that wouldn’t make sense.’

  Wesley looked at Trish. ‘You met her. What do you think?’

  ’I don’t know. Who can tell what goes on in other people’s minds?’

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  6th September 1666

  It seemed that half the town of Tradmouth was gathered there near the gates to the hall, many with flaming torches to light the scene.

  I had noticed the little chapel there on my arrival, half fallen to ruin, and it was here that we stopped and the crowd fell silent and parted to let us through. It was a dark night and, with the moon vanished behind thick cloud, the leaping flames alone lit the spectators. I could see their faces twisted with hatred and anticipation which made me fear that much cruelty would be performed there that night.

  I held fast onto Frances’s arm but she did not acknowledge me as she stared ahead. Her gaze was focused on the spot where two men made ready with spades. I could see two patches of bare soil where the earth had been recently disturbed and I realised the men were preparing to dig there. Soon other men joined them, also with spades, and they began to shift the soil with practised ease.

  I was close enough to see into the gaping holes they were creating and to my horror my worst fears were realised. In the torchlight I saw limbs inside these graves. Two bodies, unshrouded, naked and stinking.

  I attempted to persuade Frances to abandon her vigil and leave that terrible place but she shook her head and said, ‘It must be done else they will walk and make us all suffer for their sins.’

  33

  Rachel had just received bad news. Jen Barrow’s latest email had been apologetic but this hadn’t softened the blow. Jen had made the decision to shut the shop for a while and she was contemplating getting away from Tradmouth, destination unspecified. The shock of Linda’s murder and the responsibility of coping on her own had proved too much for her, she said, and she couldn’t say when she’d be back. She ended with the words ‘sorry to let you down’.

  Rachel’s spirits sank further when she saw the number of other emails waiting in her inbox. When she started to trawl through them she spotted one from a detective constable based at Neston Police Station headed Albert Cummings – information. As soon as she’d read it she called Trish over.

  ‘Come and have a look at this.’

  Glad of a distraction from her paperwork, Trish hurried over.

  ‘There was an incident when Bert Cummings was teaching at Fulton Grange – that private school on the other side of Neston which closed down a few years ago.’

  ‘I thought he taught at Neston High School.’

  ‘He must have worked at Fulton Grange before that. A boy punched him because Bert put him in detention when he wanted to go to an art club. Cummings lost a couple of teeth – had to go to A and E.’

  ‘Was the boy charged?

  ‘Apparently not. For some reason it was never made official.

  ‘So how come it’s on record in Neston?’

  ‘It’s not, or rather not officially. The DC who emailed me only found out about it because he was talking about Cummings’ murder to his brother-in-law who said he remembered him from his schooldays. He said the boy who attacked Bert had a history of making trouble and left soon after the incident.’

  ‘What about Cummings?’

  ‘He stayed on at Fulton Grange for a few more years then when the school got into financial trouble he took a job at Neston High where he worked until his retirement. He was popular and no other incidents were reported. Cummings had been giving the boy low marks and told him off for persistent disruptive behaviour so there was bad feeling between them. We’ve been assuming Bert didn’t have an enemy in the world but now we’ve found one.’

  ‘How old would this boy be now?’

  ‘In his forties?’

  ‘Do we have a name?’

  ‘Jonathan Kilin.’

  Rachel went over to tell Wesley. She had the feeling he’d want to know right away that Bert Cummings had at least one old enemy who might have wanted him dead.

  34

  Wesley asked one of the DCs drafted in from Neston to trace Jonathan Kilin. Anyone who’d borne a grudge against Bert Cummings had to be considered as a suspect.

  He also wanted to speak to Jane Webster, one of the girls who’d given evidence for the defence in Jackson’s trial. He was anxious to hear another side of the story. But he needed to be patient while the team tracked her down.

  It was eight o’clock by the time he arrived home. He’d warned Pam that he probably wouldn’t be back till bedtime so he’d been hoping she’d be pleased to see him back so early. But as he poured himself a glass of wine she seemed distant and the uneasiness he’d felt earlier returned.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘You haven’t been to see the doctor or … ’

  ‘I told you, I’m fine.’

  It was obvious she was in no mood to confide in him so he began to tell her about the case, feeling the urge to fill the awkward silence. He’d just poured himself another glass, trying to clear his mind, when Della clattered into the room on her steel crutches. Over the past couple of weeks she’d been able to abandon her wheelchair for short periods; hopefully a sign she was on the mend.

  ‘You’re back then.’

  ‘Good evening to you too, Della,’ he said. Although he found his mother-in-law’s constant presence wearing, he suddenly realised she might be in possession of some useful knowledge.

  ‘Della. Didn’t you teach at Neston High at one time?’

  She lowered herself carefully into the armchair, propping her crutches against the arm. ‘I taught there two years when I was fresh out of university but a lot of water’s passed under the bridge since then. Why are you asking?’ Her question was cautious as though she feared Wesley was trying to rake up some unsavoury incident from her past.

  ‘Did you know a school called Fulton Grange?’

  She wrinkled
her nose in disgust. ‘That posh boarding school where poor Gemma Pollinger went. It was a bastion of privilege. I was glad when the place closed down.’

  ‘Know anyone who taught there?’

  Della thought for a few moments. ‘As a matter of fact I do. My friend Stephen who taught with me at the college worked at Fulton Grange for a while before it closed.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to him if that’s possible.’

  She eyed him suspiciously before whipping her phone from her pocket and selecting a number. After a brief conversation she turned to Wesley. ‘Stephen says he’ll be happy to have a chat tonight if you want to pop round. He lives in a converted lighthouse near Little Tradmouth Head.’ She levered herself out of her seat with her crutch. ‘He’s expecting us. That wine’ll be waiting for you when you get back.’

  ‘You’re coming too?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Stephen for a while and I’m going stir crazy here.’

  Wesley knew he had no choice. Della was going to sit in on the interview whether he liked it or not. He promised Pam he wouldn’t be long and when he held the passenger door open for Della he saw a look of triumph on her face. He wouldn’t have put it past her to mislead him just to relieve her boredom and he hoped it wouldn’t be a wasted journey. He made her promise to leave all the questions to him. The last thing he needed was for the conversation to veer off course.

  After a fifteen-minute drive they arrived at the lighthouse. It was an isolated spot and Della told him that Stephen Kelly, who hadn’t yet retired, lived alone there with his two cats. He was a popular, gregarious man, she explained. It was just that there were times when he preferred to be alone with nature, his books and his music.

  Wesley let Della make the introductions and shook the man’s hand, before they were welcomed in. Stephen had the look of an academic, tall with a shock of grey hair and a mouth that turned up at the corners giving him an amiable expression. He also seemed glad of the company. Perhaps over the years solitude had lost its allure.