by Kate Ellis
‘I’ll be off to Strangefields Farm then,’ he said, wondering whether Grace would be there, surprised at how much he was looking forward to seeing her again.
He saw Gerry glance at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s six o’clock. Why don’t you go straight home after you’ve seen Neil? Early start tomorrow.’
Wesley didn’t need telling twice, but as he turned to go Gerry spoke again.
‘All Temples’ victims’ families have been seen and ruled out. If Linda’s murder was a copycat … ’
‘What about friends of the girls?’
‘The ones we could find have been spoken to and there’s nobody who stands out.’
Wesley could read Gerry’s thoughts. If anyone had a motive for taking revenge on Jackson Temples by killing his sister, it was the families of his victims. But this line of enquiry had hit a dead end – for now.
On his way to the car his phone began to ring. It was Maritia and she sounded worried. ‘I understand you’ve been to the surgery to speak to Jane.’
‘Word gets round fast.’
‘Have you heard from Grace at all?’
When he answered in the negative she carried on, slightly breathless as though she’d been hurrying. ‘I arranged to meet her for a quick lunch in Neston today but she never turned up. I’ve been trying to call her but her phone’s switched off, which is strange if she’s here on business. I rang the hotel too but they say she hasn’t been there. I think something’s wrong.’
‘I’m on my way to the site where she’s been working so I’ll ask around and call you back if I learn anything.’
It took him twenty minutes to get to Strangefields Farm because of the rush-hour traffic; people who worked in Tradmouth and lived elsewhere leaving for the day. When he turned off Dead Man’s Lane onto the drive he saw a green marquee to his right near where a group of archaeologists, supervised by Neil, were manoeuvring a large tarpaulin over a trench, covering it for the night to protect whatever was in there until they could resume work the next day.
Neil hurried to meet him and led him straight to the trench.
‘We won’t have time to lift them today,’ he said. ‘So we’re covering the trench so we can start first thing tomorrow. I don’t like to leave them there overnight but most of the team, including me, have got things on this evening so they can’t stay late.’
Wesley asked his permission to climb into the trench and once he was in there he squatted down to examine the skeleton.
‘Jemima’s taken a look at it and she’s as sure as she can be that it’s a young male and that he’s been there a long time. Probably centuries although she won’t commit herself until the lab’s done the relevant tests.’
Wesley smiled. ‘Sounds as if she uses the same script as Colin Bowman. I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, straightening himself up. He stared at the bones, fascinated, suddenly regretting that he’d promised his sister that he’d go up to the house and see whether anybody could throw any light on Grace’s whereabouts.
‘The cuts on the ribs are clearer on this one, which is really exciting,’ Neil continued as though he hadn’t heard. ‘Jemima says the marks are consistent with the heart having been removed – all part of the ritual.’
Wesley felt obliged to listen politely for a few more minutes, glancing surreptitiously at his watch from time to time. Eventually he escaped and drove up to the farmhouse, now surrounded by scaffolding which had gone up since his last visit.
When he went through the open front door he heard soft footsteps on the floor above his head. Someone was working late but he wasn’t holding out much hope of finding anyone directly connected with the architect in charge.
But his luck was in. He walked through a hallway shrouded in plastic sheeting and saw a man in a suit standing by a makeshift table at the foot of the wide wooden staircase studying a clipboard. Motes of dust danced in a shaft of light streaming through a leaded window at the top of the stairs, creating a halo effect around the man’s fair curls. But from the impatient look on his face Wesley had the impression that he was no angel.
‘You’re trespassing,’ the man said, looking Wesley up and down as though he was some medieval peasant who’d intruded into the lord’s private chamber.
Wesley showed his warrant card and the man grunted. ‘What do you want?’
‘A word with your architect, Grace Compton.’
‘She hasn’t been here all day. And before you ask I’ve no idea where she is.’
‘I take it you were expecting her?’
The man glanced at his watch as though he was anxious to bring the conversation to a close. ‘I was hoping she’d show her face today because there are things we need to sort out.’ The man looked at a pile of architectural plans lying on a nearby table. ‘But the building side of the project’s going smoothly so I presume she’s grabbed the opportunity to go back to London and catch up on other things. I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow. If that’s all.’
‘You said the building side’s going smoothly – are there problems elsewhere?’
‘Is that any of your business, Inspector?’
‘It might be, Mr … ?’
‘Hamer. Joe Hamer. I wouldn’t describe them as problems. Stupid superstition, that’s all.’
He fell silent but Wesley knew he was longing to get something off his chest so he stood patiently and waited for him to elaborate.
After a few seconds Hamer spoke again. ‘In the nineteen nineties this house was the scene of several murders. Most of the tradesmen are local and they’ve been listening to ridiculous stories.’ A smirk appeared on his lips. ‘They say things have been moved – tools aren’t where they left them. One of the electricians said he heard a woman sobbing but if you ask me they’ve been playing tricks on each other. Even so, some of them are refusing to do overtime because they don’t want to be here after dark.’ He shook his head, exasperated. ‘I’m surprised the locals haven’t come with pitchforks and flaming torches to burn the place down before now.’
‘You obviously think people will want to come here on holiday?’
Hamer suddenly looked more cheerful. ‘By the time we’ve finished with the main house and the holiday village is built the place will be unrecognisable. We’re changing the name – giving it a whole new identity. In a couple of years’ time nobody will remember Strangefields Farm and Dead Man’s Lane.’
Wesley, knowing the public’s fascination with true crime, wasn’t so sure.
‘If you’ll excuse me I need to lock up,’ said Hamer, taking a set of keys from his pocket.
‘You’d better let the person upstairs know you’re going,’ said Wesley.
‘There’s nobody else here. I’m on my own.’
‘Well, someone’s walking around up there. I definitely heard footsteps when I came in.’
Wesley saw the colour drain from Hamer’s face.
41
Grace Compton had let Maritia down by not turning up to lunch and the conscience she thought she’d lost all those years ago was beginning to niggle at her like a troublesome tooth. She’d spent the night and all that day with Dale Keyes on his yacht and now she regretted that she’d ever mentioned his name to Maritia and Wesley. She’d assumed he’d disappeared to avoid paying what he owed her so she’d been angry with him. Now he’d had a chance to explain and the situation had changed completely.
He’d sworn to pay back everything he owed her and made it clear that his problems had only arisen because one of his employees had helped herself to the contents of his company’s bank account before vanishing without a word. He’d informed the police but they’d been useless, even suggesting that he’d defrauded the company himself because they’d found no record of the woman ever existing. Her ID had been faked and her National Insurance number had turned out to belong to someone else altogether.
Dale had not only felt like a fool, he’d been ruined so when he was involved in the ferry accident he’d seen it as a chance to make a new
start. On the ferry he’d met an Englishman he’d talked to in the bar the previous night; a man who’d told him in the drunken early hours that he had had no family and no ties. Despite Dale’s frantic attempts to save him, the man had drowned on that doomed ferry journey and on impulse Dale had planted his own ID on his floating body before making his escape. Consequently he’d been listed amongst the dead.
Since his vanishing act Dale had been living in Spain under a fresh identity. He’d made wealthy contacts and a very successful living managing holiday properties for fellow Brits, all the time keeping well below the radar of the authorities without troubling the Spanish taxman. When Grace had first encountered Dale one of her fellow architects had described him as a wide boy, someone who’d land in shit and come up smelling of roses. It seemed he’d been right, but maybe she liked that in a man.
Because of Dale Keyes Grace’s partnership had taken a bad financial hit; but now his fortunes had been restored and he’d promised to pay her what he owed – provided she didn’t tell the authorities he was still alive and had returned to the UK on his yacht. He’d seemed so contrite that she’d agreed to keep her silence as long as he came up with at least a payment on account by the end of the week. If he didn’t agree to her terms the ‘dead man’ would be dragged back to life, which was something neither of them really wanted.
She’d decided not to mention this new development to Wesley; he was a police officer who would never ignore wrongdoing. With Dale back on the scene, it might be wise to keep her distance from the Petersons from now on.
After returning briefly to the hotel to pick up a few essentials, she made her way back to Dale’s yacht and knocked on the cabin door. Dale had promised food and she could smell something good.
‘We’ve still got a lot to talk about,’ he said as he poured her a glass of wine.
She took the glass and raised it in a half-hearted toast. ‘Such as where you’re going to get the money from.’
‘I’ve got the money. No worries about that. Although it might take some time to get to you. Unless … ’
Grace waited for him to continue.
‘I haven’t told you the real reason I’ve come back to the UK. A friend of mine thought he saw the bitch who cleaned me out here in Tradmouth.’
‘You’ve come looking for her?’
‘Too right I have.’
‘Have you found her?’
‘Yes, and I’m going to make sure she pays back every last penny.’ The determination in Dale’s voice made Grace uncomfortable.
‘I’ve waited long enough for the money so a few more weeks won’t make much difference.’
‘I always knew you were a reasonable woman, Grace.’
‘It’s not me you owe money to, it’s my partnership.’
‘Oh yes, your life’s work.’
‘I’m passionate about what I do. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing at all.’ He paused, as though something was bothering him; something he wasn’t quite sure how to put into words. Eventually he spoke. ‘You’re not the only one who’s recognised someone from their past, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a developer I used to work with while he was doing up a property in Kent – old place he was converting into flats. I saw him in Tradmouth, which means I’ve got to be extra careful it doesn’t get out that I’m still in the land of the living. Fortunately I don’t think he saw me.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
Dale poured more wine into Grace’s empty glass before answering.
‘He’s called Joe Hamer.’
‘That’s the client I’m working for.’
Dale Keyes swore under his breath ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we?’ Dale raised his glass again. ‘Here’s to you and here’s to architecture … And getting back on an even keel.’
Grace sighed. She’d found Dale Keyes again and the strong feelings she’d once had for him had returned with a force she hadn’t expected. She’d have to return to Strangefields Farm soon to resume work. But in the meantime, she intended to make the most of the surprise reunion.
Life was short.
42
Wesley’s two cases were preying on his mind, even in the small hours of the morning when only night creatures should be wide awake.
Shortly after he’d arrived home from Strangefields Farm, Gerry had called to say that Colin had run more tests on the victims’ knife wounds, as promised. The tests confirmed his initial observation that identical blades, sharp with one serrated edge, had been used on both Linda Payne and Bert Cummings. There had been a vicious anger behind both attacks and, now it seemed almost certain that they were connected, he was sure Jackson Temples was the link between the two victims.
Pam was fast asleep by his side and his mind raced as he lay listening to her soft breathing. He couldn’t forget how he’d felt when he’d visited Strangefields Farm, as though he was being watched by something malevolent. He wondered whether the developer Joe Hamer had felt it too, although he imagined the man would never admit to anything so fanciful.
Wesley, however, kept an open mind about such things. He’d often come face to face with evil in the course of his working life and he knew that it could seep into the fabric of a place and remain for centuries. Jackson Temples had murdered three young women in that house – four if you counted Carrie Bullen. Jane Webster and Hayley Rummage might harbour doubts about his guilt but as far as Wesley could see the evidence proved otherwise. Perhaps the teenage Jane and her friends had just been lucky. Strangefields Farm was evil all right – and it was the last place he’d choose to spend a holiday.
He climbed out of bed, leaving Pam to sleep because she wasn’t working that day and didn’t have to get up until the children started clamouring for attention. He crept downstairs and was surprised to find Della already at the kitchen table cradling a mug of coffee in both hands, her crutches propped up against the nearby cupboard.
‘You’re up early,’ he said.
‘Couldn’t sleep.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Are you cheating on my daughter?’
Wesley stared at her, stunned, wondering whether she’d somehow found out about his moment of temptation with Rachel.
‘Of course not.’ He knew he was trying too hard to convince her; the sure sign of a liar.
‘Pam saw you in Tradmouth. Sharing fish and chips. All very cosy – intimate, she said. Black woman – gorgeous-looking with expensive clothes. Who is she?’
Wesley felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d assumed Pam’s distant manner had something to do with her health – but all the time it had been simple unfounded jealousy.
‘That was Grace. I must have mentioned her. She’s a friend of my sister’s and we knew each other when we were teenagers. She’s an architect working on that new development at Strangefields Farm. I promise you she’s always seen me as a sort of … brother figure. She wanted my advice about something, that’s all.’
Della eyed him suspiciously.
‘Maritia’s planning a dinner while she’s down here so Pam might get a chance to meet her.’ He gave his mother-in-law a smile that he hoped looked sincere.
Della grunted. ‘I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it. Have you found out who killed Bert Cummings yet?’
‘We’re still trying to trace Jonathan Kilin. He seems to be the only person who ever got on the wrong side of Cummings. Everyone else we’ve spoken to has had nothing but good to say about him. Any coffee in that pot?’
He took a mug off the draining board and Della poured coffee into it while her son-in-law dropped a piece of bread into the toaster. Before he could sit down Della spoke again. ‘Years ago when I taught at the high school in Dukesbridge a colleague of mine got married and I’m sure the photographer she used was called Kilin. I remember the name ’cause it was unusual.’
‘You don’t know where this photographer is now by any chance?’
&
nbsp; ‘I think that’s your job, don’t you? But I can ask around if you like.’
‘Thanks. That’d be a great help.’ It was unlike his mother-in-law to be helpful so he reckoned she needed encouraging.
As he was preparing to leave the house Pam came downstairs in her dressing gown. He could hear the children squabbling in the background but she was ignoring them for the moment. He kissed her on the cheek.
‘Della said you saw me with Grace the other day.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘That was the Grace your sister mentioned?’
‘She wanted to meet because she needed my advice about something that was worrying her. See you later,’ he whispered before leaving the house, telling himself the misunderstanding had been sorted out.
When he walked into the CID office, trying hard not to be noticed, Gerry was already addressing the troops. Once everyone had been allocated their tasks for the morning, Wesley followed the DCI into his office.
‘Jonathan Kilin, the boy who beat up Bert Cummings – it’s possible his father was a wedding photographer. I’ve had a quick look online but I can’t find any mention of him. He’ll probably be retired by now.’
‘Put Trish onto it. She enjoys a challenge.’
As he turned to go he felt Gerry’s hand on his shoulder. ‘That jeweller in Neston should be opening his shop in half an hour. If our lad turns up at least we’ll have made one arrest. And if he broke into Bert Cummings’ place he could be his killer.’
Wesley still had the feeling that the murder and the burglaries weren’t connected, but that didn’t mean the thief couldn’t provide useful information.
The small jeweller’s shop stood down a narrow side alley off Neston’s main shopping street, a picturesque thoroughfare with the arch of the town gate at its centre. Underwood’s was a pleasingly old-fashioned shop with sparkling rings and gold necklaces brightening the small, dark windows. When Wesley pushed the door open a bell jangled and an elderly man bobbed up from behind the counter like a jack-in-the-box.
