Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Do you know a woman called Linda Payne?’

  ‘I’ve heard her name on the local news recently but I didn’t know her. Why should I?’

  She was starting to look uncomfortable – which was exactly what Wesley wanted. Rachel looked as though she was longing to jump in and say something but Wesley gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head. As he seemed to have established some sort of rapport with the woman, he was going to be the one who did the talking for the time being.

  ‘Linda Payne was Jackson Temples’ half-sister, although it wasn’t something she made widely known.’

  Hayley’s mouth fell open. ‘I didn’t know. She’s never been mentioned … ’

  ‘She was killed in exactly the same way as Jackson Temples’ victims.’

  A look of triumph appeared on Hayley’s face. ‘I think that proves his innocence once and for all, doesn’t it? The killer’s still out there.’

  ‘Another possibility is that somebody’s copying his MO. Perhaps somebody who’s trying to prove Temples’ innocence.’ He tilted his head to one side, waiting for the implication to sink in.

  ‘Well, don’t look at me. I’ve never killed anybody.’

  ‘People will go to any lengths for love, Ms Rummage. You proposed to Jackson Temples in your letters, which presumably means you love him enough to marry him. Or rather you love the idea of him because you’ve never actually met him, have you?’

  She stood up, anger burning in her eyes. ‘Get out,’ she said, pointing at the door. ‘I want you to leave. Now.’

  ‘Can you tell us where you were last Monday – that was the night of Linda Payne’s murder?’

  For a few moments she didn’t move and Wesley could see the fire of her righteous indignation ebbing away. Then she bowed to the inevitable and searched in the depths of a large worn denim bag that lay on the floor by the side of the sofa. She brought out a diary and once she’d found the right page she thrust it in Rachel’s face.

  ‘I was at a meeting all evening. Then I went for a drink with the others afterwards; didn’t get back till midnight. You can ask anybody who was there.’

  ‘If you give us the names we will,’ said Rachel. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  After the names were provided they left, keen to get away.

  ‘He’s innocent, you know,’ Hayley called after them as they walked to the car. ‘One day soon you’re going to realise you’ve made a big mistake.’

  ‘Do you think she’s capable of murder?’ Wesley asked when they drove away.

  ‘I don’t think it, Wes, I know it.’

  38

  There was no time like the present, Wesley thought as he parked outside the surgery where his sister worked. He had wondered whether to contact Maritia but in the end he’d decided against it. If his visit to Dr Webster came as a surprise it could be to his advantage.

  When he came face to face with the receptionist, however, he had second thoughts about the wisdom of his decision. The woman looked him up and down, clearly taking him for a malingerer.

  ‘Can we speak to Dr Webster, please?’ he said, showing his ID discreetly.

  Rachel was standing behind him as though she was queuing to be seen and she too flashed her ID.

  ‘Nothing to worry about. Just routine,’ he added with a smile.

  ‘She’s with a patient.’

  ‘In that case is Dr Fitzgerald available? I’m her brother.’

  The woman eyed him suspiciously as though she suspected him of lying. ‘She’s out on call. You’ll have to wait.’

  Wesley and Rachel meekly took a seat on a plastic bench, knowing argument was useless. The man next to Rachel was coughing dramatically and she edged closer to Wesley. If you wanted to get sick this was the right place to come.

  After a ten-minute wait an elderly woman emerged from one of the surgeries and the receptionist barked, ‘Dr Webster’s free now. Surgery Three.’

  It took Wesley a few seconds to realise that she was addressing him and when he and Rachel stood up they received a hostile look from the coughing man. Nobody liked a queue jumper.

  The woman sitting behind the surgery desk was in her late thirties, tall and slim with shoulder-length brown hair, a pleasant, sympathetic face and very blue eyes. She gave them a professional smile as they took the two seats on the patients’ side of the desk.

  ‘Doreen on reception tells me you’re Maritia’s brother.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The doctor suddenly seemed more relaxed now that Wesley’s credentials had been established.

  ‘You’re a policeman, I believe.’

  ‘That’s right. Tradmouth CID.’

  ‘Then how can I help you?’

  ‘We’re investigating the death of Linda Payne. You’ve heard about it.’

  ‘I have indeed. Same MO as the Jackson Temples murders, I understand. And I’m guessing you want to speak to me because I gave evidence at his trial.’

  Wesley was relieved that she’d caught on so readily. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘All I can say is what I told the police at the time. I was a silly seventeen-year-old intent on smashing my parents’ barriers. I went to the Green Parrot with two friends from school.’

  ‘Which school?’

  ‘Morbay Grammar. Temples approached me – said I was beautiful and he wanted to paint me. I was flattered and we went back to Strangefields Farm with him to be painted. We thought it was a great adventure and I felt so sophisticated, drinking and smoking dope with an artist. He chose to paint me rather than the others which gave me a lot of street cred with my friends, I can tell you.’

  ‘And all of you got out unharmed?’

  ‘We did.’ She hesitated. ‘In fact we were shocked when we heard of his arrest. The murders were in the news but all it said was that the girls had been to the Green Parrot and had gone back to Strangefields just like we had. There were three of us together so perhaps it was a case of safety in numbers. Even so, my parents went berserk when they found out where I’d been. They said it could have been any of us but … ’

  ‘But?’ Rachel was on the edge of her seat, waiting for her to continue.

  ‘At the trial there was talk of the dead girls posing naked, all tied up with nooses around their necks, but I didn’t see any of that. OK, after he’d done a conventional portrait of me I agreed to pose nude, which I thought was really daring, and he did a quick sketch of me – a life study really. But he never touched me and I never felt as though I was in any danger. At the trial I could only tell the truth, couldn’t I?’

  ‘Hayley Rummage has been in touch with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘She’s a strange woman but I couldn’t in all honesty tell her she was deluded. I saw nothing at Strangefields Farm to make me think Jackson Temples killed those girls, although he was intense and probably very weird so I might be mistaken. He might have behaved quite differently once he got those girls alone – but my gut feeling still tells me he was innocent.’

  Wesley had rarely come across a better witness and he had more questions to ask.

  ‘Temples claimed there was another artist there. A Jonny Sykes. He was never traced.’

  ‘I never saw another man there but that doesn’t mean he didn’t exist. Strangefields was a big place. I saw those paintings at the trial … the ones of his victims tied up with ropes. Temples didn’t deny painting them but I did wonder whether they were the work of this Jonny Sykes and he was covering for him for some reason. Mind you, they were certainly in Temples’ style.’

  ‘Did you ever see anyone else when you were at Strangefields? A younger girl, for instance?’

  She frowned. ‘There was a girl there who was even younger than us. She brought Temples some beer on one occasion. I’m ashamed to say we didn’t take much notice of her. We were too busy having a good time.’

  ‘Did you tell the police about her?’

  ‘Don’t think so. They never asked
so I didn’t think it was important.’

  ‘What about the girls who died: Nerys Harred, Jacky Burns and Gemma Pollinger? And the one who survived the attack. Carrie Bullen?’

  ‘I never met them. And they didn’t go to my school so I didn’t know them. They were just names in the newspaper, I’m afraid. Sorry.’

  Wesley stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Doctor. You’ve been very helpful.’

  For a moment Jane looked unsure of herself. Then she spoke again. ‘When we were all sitting around drinking Temples told us a story about a man who once lived in the house. He said he’d come back from the dead and that he was still there.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘He was just trying to scare us, of course. It was all nonsense.’

  When Wesley and Rachel left the room he glanced back and saw that she was sitting quite still, staring ahead lost in thought.

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  15th September 1666

  The fire, my wife tells me, raged four days and nights and our house is destroyed, which causes her much distress.

  I met her on the quayside at Tradmouth for she sailed from London, having taken a wherry to Tower Wharf to find the ship of a captain of my acquaintance. The captain attested that London is burned and St Paul’s is a miserable sight with all the roofs fallen.

  Frances says we may make Strangefields Hall our home for as long as we wish and I am thankful, although my wife says only that Tradmouth is not London and she wishes to return. I tell her our home is gone and Strangefields is a good place and beg her to consider Frances’s offer. She is, after all, a widow alone in the world apart from her son.

  There have been no further sightings of Harry and Bess and all say their spirits are now in hell. I have not told my wife of what I witnessed that night.

  The people round about now call the lane near where they lie buried Dead Man’s Lane. Yet I like not this reminder of that terrible time.

  39

  Neil Watson hated meetings. He hated listening to planners and developers talking about foundations and profit margins. He always had the feeling he wasn’t wanted there; that archaeological assessments – and, worse still, actual excavations – got in the way of making money. Even so, he always stood his ground because the past was too important to sacrifice for a fast buck – or a hideous reception building.

  That morning’s meeting at Strangefields Farm had been mercifully short because Grace Compton hadn’t turned up. He had to admit that he felt a sneaking admiration for the architect – an attractive woman from an ethnic minority who could more than hold her own in the ruthless world of developers. And apparently she was an old friend of Wesley’s which, he supposed, was a recommendation of sorts. He did wonder why Wesley had never mentioned her before, either recently or during their student days, but Grace also knew Maritia so perhaps she’d been more her friend than Wesley’s.

  When Neil had broken the news about the skeleton the atmosphere in the meeting had been tense – and that was before he’d mentioned the possible presence of a chapel on the site of the proposed reception building. He could almost smell the financial disappointment in the stale air of the old house which had been stripped of its oak panelling to allow the builders to do their work unhindered. After dodging with practised ease the vexed questions of how long the discovery of human remains would delay matters, he left, saying he had to get back to work.

  He walked down the long drive towards the gates, his hands thrust into the pockets of the ancient combat jacket he always wore for work. He’d wondered whether he should have brought something smarter in his car to wear at the meeting but he couldn’t be bothered. He was an archaeologist, not an accountant, and if they didn’t like it that was their problem.

  When he arrived at the trenches his team were so engrossed in their work that they barely noticed his arrival. He stood at the edge of Trench One and watched for a while before going over to the marquee to see if there was anything interesting in the finds trays.

  He was examining an early eighteenth-century clay pipe when he heard someone shout his name, followed by the chatter of excited voices.

  When he emerged from the tent he saw that everyone had assembled around the edges of Trench Two where they stood staring into the hole like children gathered around a toyshop window. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come and see what we’ve found,’ said Neil’s second-in-command, a young woman with cropped hair and a no-nonsense manner.

  The team parted to let him through and as Neil looked down he saw the first suggestion of a ribcage, clearly visible against the dark soil and half covered by a large stone.

  After the discovery of the first skeleton he’d done some research and concluded that the burial had all the appearances of the kind of ritual used to keep the dead from rising to plague the living, especially wrongdoers or outcasts from society. The revenant – the one who returns – had been part of everyday belief and folklore for centuries, even up to recent times, and he’d been excited at the possibility that he’d found evidence of that belief at the Dead Man’s Lane site.

  ‘Start exposing it. But be careful.’

  His phone began to ring, the caller display telling him it was Jemima Baine. He answered, watching his colleagues as they worked away in the trench.

  ‘I’ve got news about your skull,’ Jemima said without any preliminary pleasantries. ‘Estimated date is between sixteen fifty and sixteen ninety. And she was brought up in the South Devon area. By the way, the soil that was clinging to the inside of the skull has been analysed as well. The techniques are remarkably accurate these days and I always believe in being thorough.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It matches the composition of soil found in the area just above Tradmouth where your skeleton was discovered. I’m running tests to match the skull with the bones.’

  ‘All we need now is to find out why she was buried like that,’ he said.

  It took a couple of hours before enough of the second skeleton was uncovered to confirm that it was definitely human. But instead of the skull resting in the usual place, it was grinning out from between the corpse’s legs.

  40

  Wesley felt a little disappointed when Hayley Rummage’s alibi for the time of Linda Payne’s murder was confirmed by her colleagues on the charity committee, although Gerry said he wouldn’t have trusted any of them not to lie to the police on principle.

  ‘Any luck finding Jonathan Kilin yet?’ Gerry asked after Wesley had filled him in on his meeting with Dr Webster.

  Wesley had to answer in the negative. Enquiries had been made and there was no trace of Jonathan Kilin. He had no criminal record so he wasn’t on the police radar. At the time of the assault on Bert Cummings the Kilins had lived in a hamlet three miles from Tradmouth. Afterwards the family had moved away, destination unknown, and Jonathan had vanished from all official records.

  Then there was Danny Brice, whose prints had been found at Bert Cummings’ bungalow. All patrols were still on the lookout for him but so far they’d drawn a blank.

  His phone rang and when he saw it was Neil he wavered for a moment, wondering whether to allow his friend to intrude on his working day. Eventually he yielded to temptation and answered.

  ‘We’ve found another body.’ Neil began without any introduction. ‘Looks like a man this time judging by the pelvis.’ Neil sounded excited and something told Wesley that this was no ordinary burial. ‘There’s a big stone on top of him and cut marks on the ribs just like the first … and we found his skull between his legs. Jemima Baine is going to take the bones away for examination once we’ve lifted them. She’s certain they’re archaeological so they’re not your problem. She also says the first skull definitely dates from the late seventeenth century.’

  ‘Glad that’s cleared up,’ said Wesley, thinking of Gemma Pollinger, relieved in some way that the skull wasn’t hers.

  ‘Anyway, I’m notifying you about the bones as per procedure
along with the coroner. Want to come over and have a look?’

  Wesley looked around the office. Gerry was talking on the phone and everyone else had their heads down, deep in concentration, just waiting for a lead. Now was as good a time as any. Besides, Strangefields Farm was just a short detour from home.

  He knocked on Gerry’s open door and the DCI looked up, motioning Wesley to come in and take a seat. From the expression on his face Wesley guessed that whatever he was talking about was something he hoped would move the case along.

  ‘That was Neston nick,’ Gerry said once he’d finished his call. ‘Some of that jewellery from the burglaries has been offered to a jeweller in the town. He told the lad to come in first thing tomorrow then he called us. He recognised a couple of pieces from the list he was given. Good thing he was on the ball.’

  ‘Let’s hope this’ll get that case wrapped up.’ Wesley thought for a moment. ‘Although I’m still not convinced the burglaries are connected with Bert Cummings’ death, I’m more intrigued by the Temples connection. Bert might have taught Temples all those years ago, and now Bert and Temples’ half-sister have been killed within a few days of each other. It’s too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘Not sure if I agree with you, Wes. Danny Brice’s prints were all over Bert Cummings’ place and he’s got a record.’

  ‘Pinching a few valuables is a very different kettle of fish to murder. By the way, I’ve had a call from Neil. The skull Glen Crowther found is old – seventeenth century – so it definitely doesn’t belong to Gemma Pollinger. And another skeleton’s turned up at Strangefields Farm. That looks archaeological too but I said I’d go round and see to the formalities.’

  Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘OK. I know it’ll make you happy.’ He sighed loudly ‘Paul’s been trying to find out who’s selling the Temples paintings via that website. And there’s still no sign of Jonathan Kilin. Maybe he went abroad to find himself.’

  Wesley experienced an overwhelming feeling of frustration. Tantalising snippets had been dangled in front of them only to lead nowhere. If they could find Jonathan Kilin and confirm that Linda Payne was murdered because of her connection with Jackson Temples, they might make some progress. But at that moment everything seemed as elusive as sea mist.