Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  ‘London’s a big place, Inspector.’

  ‘She told her colleague that people from the theatres used to use her shop. You were a director. Perhaps you were one of her customers.’

  A flash of panic passed across Pembry’s face and Wesley thought he was about to lie, but to his surprise he nodded.

  ‘Yes, I admit I did know Linda back in London.’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  There was a long silence, as though he was deciding how much it was wise to reveal. When he finally spoke it was almost in a whisper. ‘I might as well tell you the truth because I don’t want you going and asking questions in London. The theatre world is an incestuous place and if it was thought I was a suspect in a murder inquiry … I’d rather come clean – lay my cards on the table.’

  ‘That would be wise, sir,’ said Wesley.

  ‘The inspector’s right,’ said Gerry. ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil – that’s what my old mum used to say.’

  Wesley could have done without Gerry’s mum’s words of wisdom but he sat on the edge of the settee in silent expectation, waiting for the revelations to begin.

  ‘My wife used to be a well-known actor – at one point her career was far more successful than mine. Then some years ago she was involved in an accident and her limitations frustrate her so she isn’t the easiest person to live with. She insisted on moving here, which meant I had to give up London and the work I loved so much. I hate this bloody bungalow. It reminds me of everything I’ve sacrificed for Isobel. What I was and what I’ve become: trying to make amateurs work like professionals is like herding the proverbial cats.’

  Wesley was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. He’d assumed he’d retired voluntarily and that he was making the most of his opportunity to be a major figure in the South-West arts scene. ‘If you felt that way why did you agree to come here?’

  ‘One word, Inspector. Guilt. Isobel and I had had an argument and in a fit of pique I picked the car up from the garage where it was being serviced before the brakes had been fixed. The mechanic tried to stop me but I was in such a foul temper that I didn’t listen to him and I just drove off. I was known for being stubborn and arrogant in those days. Sometimes it proved to be an advantage. I demanded high standards and produced brilliant work, even though I say it myself. But on this occasion … ’

  ‘What happened?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘When I drove the car home everything seemed fine so I thought the mechanic had been fussing for nothing. He even rang the house but I put the phone down on him and left it off the hook. How stupid was that? Then Isobel went out in the car that evening and the brakes failed – all my fault for not listening. I’ve been paying for my mistake ever since. And before you ask, no, I’ve never been able to bring myself to leave her – not after I’d done that to her. But … ’

  Wesley knew there was more to come so he waited patiently, hoping Gerry’s impatience wouldn’t make him break the spell.

  When Pembry finally spoke it was in the hushed voice of a penitent making his confession to a priest. ‘I’ve had a lot of affairs over the years – in fact that’s what Isobel and I were arguing about when … There have been a lot more women since the accident but I’ve been discreet. My marriage might be purgatory, Inspector, but I still can’t bring myself to hurt Isobel.’

  ‘Was Linda Payne one of the women?’ Wesley’s question was gentle.

  Pembry nodded. ‘Linda was attractive – bubbly – and we had fun in London. It was nothing serious but … ’ He glanced in the direction of the door as though he expected someone to be eavesdropping. ‘Anyway, one day she turned up at a casting rehearsal for a previous production. I’d heard she’d moved to Devon but it’s a big county and I was shocked to see her. And pleased, I suppose. We started meeting. Just fun. Nothing heavy. Then she began to make demands. She wanted me to cast her in main roles and when I refused she hinted that she’d tell Isobel about our affair.’

  ‘She was blackmailing you?’

  ‘I didn’t think of it like that at the time, but yes, I suppose she was.’

  ‘Her death was convenient for you then,’ said Gerry.

  ‘It’s hardly convenient having the police coming round asking questions. And it’s been very inconvenient for the production. Pauline the understudy’s still not off the book and we open in a fortnight.’

  Gerry frowned. ‘Off the book?’

  ‘She doesn’t know her lines,’ said Wesley, relieving Pembry of the burden of explanation.

  ‘Did Linda get the part of the duchess because she put pressure on you?’

  ‘If I’m being honest I would have preferred to cast Pauline straight away but I felt I had no choice. I can’t risk hurting Isobel any more than I have already. I ruined her life and I’ll pay for that until one of us dies.’

  ‘Hasn’t stopped you getting up to hanky-panky though.’ Gerry’s words were blunt, as though he’d seen through the show of repentance and the dramatic statements and wanted to expose the man’s hypocrisy.

  Pembry’s face turned a vivid shade of red that made Wesley fear for his blood pressure but he didn’t answer.

  ‘Where were you on the night Linda Payne died? What did you do after the rehearsal?’

  ‘I went for a drink with George who’s playing Antonio and Hugh from the Arts Centre. We just had one in the Angel and then I drove straight home. Left the pub around twenty to eleven and got back at eleven on the dot. I know that because the church clock was chiming. Isobel was waiting up for me and she’ll tell you I didn’t go out again that night.’

  Before they left they asked Isobel to confirm his story which she did without hesitation, although Wesley thought she recalled the evening a little too readily – almost as though her answer had been rehearsed.

  ‘Well, he’s got a motive,’ said Gerry as they got into the car to drive back to Tradmouth.

  ‘And Linda Payne was a blackmailer as well as being Jackson Temples’ little sister. What if Lance Pembry wasn’t the only person she was putting pressure on?’

  ‘Then I’d say we’ve just got ourselves a new line of enquiry.’

  37

  As soon as he returned to the station Gerry phoned the lab. He needed the results on the rope used in the production of The Duchess of Malfi. Lance Pembry was now a suspect; perhaps it appealed to his theatrical turn of mind to copy the MO of a notorious local killer. Information about Jackson Temples’ crimes was readily available on the internet; there for everyone to see and, if they felt so inclined, emulate.

  He’d told Trish and Paul to have another word with members of the cast to see whether Linda knew anything about anyone’s private life which might leave them open to blackmail, even blackmail of the most subtle variety. Yet, to Wesley, the murder of Linda Payne didn’t seem like a spur-of-the-moment act and Gerry agreed. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to copy Temples’ crimes.

  When Rachel told Gerry that Jen Barrow was thinking of leaving Tradmouth he wasn’t pleased. She could be a witness, he said, and they needed to know where to find her. But as he was about to vent his anger Wesley entered his office with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  ‘I’ve been trying to trace the girls who modelled for Temples and gave evidence on his behalf. Trish has spoken to one who’s now up in Scotland but she couldn’t add anything to her original statement.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Still working on it. I’ve also been reading though the letters Temples has been receiving in prison. Some of them are pretty explicit.’

  He handed the copies to Gerry who scanned them quickly, his eyebrows rising a little higher as he turned each page. ‘Well, they’re imaginative, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘And they’re not afraid of providing their names and addresses either – which is convenient for us. The nearest one has an address in Neston and she seems to be running a campaign on Facebook to get his conviction quashed. Fancy paying her a visit?’
r />   ‘Why not? If she’s local she might have been around at the time of the original case.’

  ‘Her name’s Hayley Rummage and she lives on that new estate near the castle. I’ve looked her up on the PNC. Nothing known.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘The next nearest one’s in Sheffield. Then there’s one up in Aberdeen and another in Belgium. There’s even one in the States.’

  ‘What do they get out of it?’

  Wesley considered the question for a moment. ‘Probably a fantasy thing. Sex with a strangler?’

  ‘Each to his own, I suppose. Did he receive any letters other than fan mail? Any threatening revenge?’

  ‘About fifteen years ago Gemma Pollinger’s mother wrote begging him to say what he’d done with her body.’

  ‘Did he reply?’

  Wesley shook his head.

  ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

  ‘There’s something else that might be worth following up,’ said Wesley. ‘Rob’s found a website that’s selling Temples’ work.’

  ‘His art, you mean?’

  ‘Before his arrest he was an up-and-coming artist who sold his work in galleries throughout the West Country. It was said at his trial that that was why he found it so easy to lure his victims back to Strangefields Farm to pose for him.’

  ‘Nude.’

  ‘Not all of them. He did a lot of portraits and conventional nude studies which, I guess, were left at Strangefields Farm. Only the nastier ones were produced at the trial and as far as I know they’re still in the evidence store at Morbay nick.’

  Gerry sighed. ‘Temples always claimed he was just pushing the boundaries – pushed them a bit too far if you ask me and those lasses died as a result.’

  ‘Well, someone’s flogging his pictures for a fortune. Temples’ notoriety has no doubt added to their value.’

  ‘Can we trace the seller?’

  ‘I’ve got Tom from Scientific Support working on it. I’d like to pay this Hayley Rummage a visit. We could send a couple of DCs but I’d like to meet her for myself. I’m curious.’

  ‘Me too. I’d go with you if I didn’t have a meeting with the press officer to discuss the latest statement.’ He didn’t look too pleased at the prospect. ‘According to her they’ve got wind of a possible connection between our two murders and she’s been under siege.’

  Wesley noticed that Rachel was standing by the window, taking a well-earned break from her paperwork. She was gazing out at the view across the river and sipping a cup of coffee. She looked as though her thoughts were miles away. ‘I’ll take Rachel. I’d value her opinion.’

  When he told Rachel his plans she swigged back what remained of her coffee and fetched her coat.

  ‘I’ve read the letters Rummage wrote to Temples,’ she said as they made their way to the car park. ‘She must be a bit of a weirdo. What do we know about her?’

  ‘No criminal record. But having the hots for a serial killer isn’t regarded as an offence.’

  It was four o’clock by the time they reached Hayley Rummage’s address: a small modern semi on a new estate on the outskirts of the pretty Elizabethan town of Neston, eight miles upriver from Tradmouth. Wesley knew they’d find her home because Rachel had rung on ahead, although she hadn’t told her the reason for their visit. Wesley hoped it would come as a surprise.

  The woman who answered the door was in her forties with the intense look of a habitual worrier. Her short spiky hair was dyed ash-blond and she wore pair of thick-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she asked after they’d showed her their ID. The question was guarded, as though she had a guilty conscience.

  When Wesley asked if they could talk inside she stood aside reluctantly to let them enter. The small living room was neat and soulless and Wesley and Rachel seated themselves on the corner sofa that dominated the space.

  Wesley gave Rachel a small nod. It would be up to her to begin.

  ‘Have you lived in Neston long, Ms Rummage?’

  ‘Just a year. Why?’

  ‘Do you work?’

  ‘For a charity that helps offenders. Not the sort of thing you’d be interested in. What is it you want?’ She was on the defensive and Wesley wondered why.

  ‘We’ve been to visit Jackson Temples in prison,’ said Rachel.

  She blushed and her body tensed. Then suddenly she straightened herself up and looked Wesley in the eye.

  ‘How is he?’ There was a challenge in the question.

  ‘He seems well. Did you know him before he went to prison?’ He calculated that she would have been a teenager at the time Temples had committed his crimes. ‘Did you ever go to Strangefields Farm? Were you one of the girls who posed for him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve never actually met him.’ It sounded as though this was a cause for regret. ‘But it upsets me to think of him locked up in there deprived of all the freedom we all take for granted. For a man with his remarkable talent to be confined in a tiny cell for hour upon hour without daylight or—’

  Rachel couldn’t listen to this any longer. ‘He murdered three women and was responsible for the suicide of a fourth. I wouldn’t waste your sympathy.’

  She shook her head again, more vigorously this time. ‘You’re wrong. He’s innocent. He was framed by your lot. It’s always happening.’

  ‘Not true.’ Rachel lowered her voice, affronted at the accusation.

  ‘It is true. And it’s been happening on your watch, Detective Sergeant.’ She turned to Wesley. ‘And yours, Inspector. I work for Rights for Prisoners and virtually all the ex-prisoners we deal with say they were wrongfully imprisoned.’

  ‘Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’ said Wesley reasonably.

  ‘It’s that attitude that causes the problem.’

  Wesley recognised in her the kind of intensity that robs a person of the ability to see the alternative point of view; the sort of intensity that, twisted, can create a fanatic or a terrorist. It was time to come to the point.

  ‘You’ve been writing to Temples.’

  ‘I do what I can to give him comfort in his situation. Is that so wrong?’

  ‘From your letters you seem to be … ’ He searched for the right word but in the end he opted for simplicity. ‘You seem to be in love with him.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that? Love is better than the hatred he’s been subjected to over the past two decades. Did you know he won’t be considered for release because he refuses to confess? Does it ever occur to anybody that he might not admit to those murders because he didn’t commit them?’

  ‘There was the testimony of Carrie Bullen, the girl who survived,’ said Rachel. ‘She described posing for Temples before the attack.’

  ‘But the attack left her with amnesia. She couldn’t remember what actually happened, could she?’

  ‘There was forensic evidence that all the victims had been at Strangefields Farm.’

  ‘He was an artist. They modelled for him. He freely admitted that.’

  ‘With a rope around their necks. The post-mortems revealed that an identical rope was used in their murders and the victims’ clothes were found hidden on his premises.’

  ‘I’m familiar with the details of the case,’ she snapped. ‘There was another artist working there called Jonny Sykes. Why was he never questioned?’

  ‘Because no evidence was found that he ever existed.’ Rachel sounded as though she was losing her patience. ‘None of the girls who survived ever saw him and the jury concluded that he was a figment of Temples’ imagination. A handy scapegoat.’

  ‘Jackson said he cleared out taking all his stuff with him when the last girl went missing but the police made no attempt to find him.’

  ‘There was an extensive search for him but nobody of that name who fitted the description Temples gave was ever found. Jonny Sykes didn’t exist.’

  ‘Then he must have been using a false name,’ she shouted. ‘It’
s no use talking to you. Your minds are closed.’

  Wesley shot Rachel a warning look. It would do them no good to get embroiled in an argument with the woman.

  ‘I’m afraid the nature of this case and the thought of those innocent victims tends to arouse strong feelings in the people who have to deal with the aftermath,’ said Wesley quietly, giving Hayley Rummage his most disarming smile. ‘But I can assure you I’ve never knowingly locked anybody up I didn’t believe to be guilty. And we do have to think about those poor young women who’ve been deprived of the chance of growing old and having families of their own. They’re my main concern. That’s why Sergeant Tracey and I do the job we do.’

  Hayley opened her mouth to reply but no words came out.

  ‘I take it you’re familiar with the details of the Temples case?’

  She sniffed. ‘I made it my business to learn all I could when I began writing to him.’

  ‘Have you read the transcript of the trial?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you know what was done to the victims?’

  She looked away as though she couldn’t bear to face the uncomfortable reality of Temples’ crimes. But Wesley intended to force her to confront it and after a few seconds she turned back to face him, her eyes glowing with defiance.

  ‘I’ve spoken to one of the women who gave evidence on his behalf. She’s convinced of his innocence too.’

  Wesley and Rachel glanced at each other. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Jane Webster. She’s a GP here in Neston. You couldn’t find a more reliable witness.’

  ‘Which surgery?’

  ‘Parr Court. She still uses her maiden name professionally.’

  Wesley took a deep breath. Jane was a colleague of Maritia’s and he cursed himself for not finding her sooner. Now by chance it seemed his luck was in.

  ‘Have you ever visited a florist’s shop in Tradmouth? The one opposite the market.’

  Hayley looked confused by the change of subject. ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Have you ever had any dealings with the Harbourside Players? It’s a drama group based at Tradmouth Arts Centre.’