Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  My own son, born a year after my wife’s move here to Devonshire, has grown to be a fine young man and studies the law at Oxford while our daughter Jane is to marry a young man who owns much land nearby. Devonshire is now our home and that is why I find the reports which have lately reached my ears most unsettling.

  Yesterday a sailor accosted me on the quayside in Tradmouth with a tale so strange I would have accused him of being a lying rogue, were it not for the solemnity of his demeanour. He told me he had seen my cousin Reuben, the late master of Strangefields, with his own eyes in a Plymouth tavern. When I asked him how he could be certain he replied that he had once worked at Strangefields and knew the brother of the maidservant, Bess Whitetree, who was hanged for her master’s murder. Reuben Strange’s face, he said, was one forever in his memory.

  44

  Joe Hamer stood amidst the dust and debris of Strangefields Farm and stared at the object in his hand with distaste. Glen Crowther had found it behind some panelling upstairs and he’d brought it to Joe with a grin on his face, as though he was expecting a reward. But Joe couldn’t work out what would make Crowther think he’d be interested in a scruffy old book filled with handwriting that was impossible to read. He’d been tempted to throw the thing in the skip outside with the rest of the rubbish, then something had stopped him.

  The rumour that the place was cursed flashed through his mind and he was struck by the possibility that this object might be the source of the curse, hidden behind ancient oak panelling in an upstairs room. He’d heard of such things being discovered in other old houses: bottles filled with nails, mummified cats and written curses in concealed places. The workmen claimed to have heard things; even the detective inspector had said something about footsteps. On the other hand old houses creak and he was sure that Strangefields’ bad luck hadn’t come from a supernatural source. It was a man who’d brought death and suffering to the place, not ghosts and witchcraft.

  He deposited the book on the windowsill amongst the builders’ unwashed mugs and examined his phone. Grace Compton still hadn’t turned up but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as architects sometimes got in the way.

  He heard a voice calling his name and rolled his eyes. If that bloody archaeologist was looking for him, the news wouldn’t be good. The discovery of human remains along with the foundations of some old building near the gates had held up work for too long already. Watson had mentioned the possibility that executions might have taken place in the grounds which, given the recent history of the place, wasn’t something he’d be putting in the brochure.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ said Neil.

  ‘Of course.’ Hamer was trying his best to hide his annoyance.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you we’ve lifted the skeleton.’

  ‘So you’ve finished down there?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Neil paused, enjoying the look of suppressed anger on the developer’s face. ‘There could be more human remains.’ He looked around as though he was hoping another skull would appear any second. Then he spotted the old book nestling between the tannin-stained mugs. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just some old rubbish.’

  Neil picked up the book and flicked through it, his face betraying his excitement. ‘Mind if I keep it?’

  Then he rushed out of the front door without waiting for a reply.

  It was three o’clock by the time Wesley and Gerry arrived back at the station.

  As Gerry predicted, the neighbour had been able to give them some interesting snippets of information. As well as the suited man and the women she’d described as ‘girls’ she’d seen a van parked outside there several times. It had a logo on the side, a flower she thought, but she hadn’t been able to see it properly and hadn’t thought to make a note of the registration number.

  Sometimes the neighbour had heard noises through the walls as if somebody was moving things about, although as the walls were thick she hadn’t been able to hear voices.

  ‘No doubt she had a glass to the wall,’ said Gerry as they’d left her house. ‘I know I would have done. A van with a flower on it – I’m thinking Linda Payne was flogging her half-brother’s paintings on his behalf … or maybe her own.’

  ‘But how would she get access to the property?’ Wesley looked at his watch. ‘Rich Vernon and Lance Pembry are being brought in. Let’s see what they’ve got to say about that rope.’

  ‘We still don’t know if it was the actual murder weapon.’

  ‘I’ve asked the lab to conduct more tests.’

  ‘Will we have the results by the time we interview Pembry and Vernon?’

  ‘Even if we haven’t we don’t have to let them know that, do we?’

  ‘You’re learning, Wes,’ said Gerry, giving his inspector a hearty slap on the back.

  ‘In the meantime let’s visit Bayside Properties and while we’re there we can tell them their house is out of bounds for the foreseeable future.’

  Gerry frowned. ‘You go with Rach. I’ve got a meeting with the chief super. She’s quibbling about the overtime budget again.’

  Wesley’s lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him so he was happy to leave the driving to Rachel. She drove to Morbay via Neston because the car ferries were always busy at that time of the day and pulled up outside the offices of Bayside Properties at four o’clock on the dot.

  The office’s faded UPVC frontage had the slightly seedy look of a building that had been modernised some years ago with every expense spared. They pressed the entryphone by the front door and waited to be buzzed in.

  The interior was every bit as shabby as the outside, Wesley thought as he stepped over the threshold just as a man was emerging from a door behind the reception desk. He was portly with combed-over hair and perspiration stains on the armpits of his pale-blue shirt even though the office wasn’t particularly warm. When they showed their ID he looked nervous and Wesley couldn’t help wondering why.

  The man introduced himself as George Horrocks, the manager, and when he shook their hands his palms were sweating so much that Wesley had to resist the temptation to wipe his hand on his trousers.

  Wesley came straight to the point of their visit. ‘What do you know about the Jackles Gallery?’

  The man looked confused and a trickle of sweat dribbled onto his lips. ‘Nothing. We don’t deal with any art galleries.’

  ‘My colleague didn’t say it was an art gallery,’ said Rachel.

  The man looked even more flustered. ‘I just assumed … ’

  ‘Your company owns a property in Tradmouth. Number six Castle View Terrace.’

  ‘If you say so. I don’t know all our properties offhand. It’s my secretary’s day off and I’m not up to date with—’

  ‘This one’s been modernised but it’s unoccupied and being used by a company or individual to store paintings. Can you tell us who’s renting it?’

  Horrocks invited them through to his office. When Wesley glanced back at the secretary’s desk he saw a pile of files there and a box of tissues beside the computer. A word with the desk’s occupant might be helpful, he thought. Secretaries saw a lot and knew more than their bosses imagined. He took the scarf from Castle View Terrace – now encased in an evidence bag – out of his pocket.

  ‘Recognise this?’

  For a second Horrocks looked puzzled. ‘It looks familiar. I might have seen my secretary wearing something similar. Why? Where did you get it?’

  Wesley didn’t answer the question. ‘If we could have those details of the property … ’

  Once in Horrocks’ office he made a great show of rummaging through his filing cabinet and eventually he pulled out a file. ‘Number six Castle View Terrace. Here we are. Currently unoccupied. Nobody’s renting it.’

  ‘Then where do the pictures come from?’

  ‘Left by a previous tenant?’ Horrocks suggested nervously.

  ‘Someone’s using that address. Could it be one of your staff?’


  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Who else works here?’

  ‘Just me and my secretary,’ he said with a nervous grin. ‘But I’m sure she won’t know … ’

  ‘Even so, I’d like a word with her. Can you give me her name and contact details?’

  When Horrocks provided the information, Wesley caught Rachel’s eye. Horrocks’ secretary was Pauline Howe, Linda Payne’s former understudy. Now the new Duchess of Malfi.

  45

  Danny hadn’t been so frightened since he’d found Kevin’s granddad lifeless in his chair with those terrible bloody wounds. He’d been afraid then that he’d get the blame even though he’d had nothing to do with it.

  Kevin had often talked of Granddad Bert. How he’d been a teacher and how he’d told Kevin all sorts of things and taken him fishing when he was a boy. Kevin said that his granddad had never known he preferred boys to girls but he’d intended to tell him one day because Kevin knew he’d understand. Danny was sure Kevin had been right because the Bert he’d come to know had had a twinkle in his eye and hadn’t possessed a bigoted bone in his body.

  Even though he wanted the bastard who’d killed Bert found as much as the police did, he knew he was the one they suspected. He’d fallen into their trap at the jeweller’s and only just managed to escape. He’d taken off Kevin’s red leather jacket because it was too noticeable, folding it carefully so only the black lining showed and carrying it over his shoulder before dodging into an alleyway.

  Barney, however, wasn’t so easily disguised so he’d returned to the squat, hoping Stag and Roberta wouldn’t be there. It was time to move on before they found their hoard was missing. Perhaps he’d find a place in Morbay or possibly Plymouth or Exeter; somewhere bigger where he could get lost in the crowd. Now Bert was dead he had no reason for staying around.

  He started packing his meagre possessions into his rucksack. It was time to go.

  Just as he’d finished a sound from the empty shop below made him freeze. He put a reassuring hand on Barney’s head, praying he wouldn’t bark. They were back and he knew he had to get out fast.

  Wesley needed to speak to Pauline Howe but when they’d called at her address there had been nobody at home.

  On his return to the CID office he noticed that the evidence bags containing the stolen jewellery from Neston were lying on Rob Carter’s desk. Rob was busy listing all the pieces and matching them with the burglary reports.

  ‘Any sign of Danny Brice?’ he asked as he passed.

  Rob looked up, glad of the distraction. ‘Not yet. He’ll have gone to ground.’

  Wesley left him to his tedious task and found Gerry in his office, surrounded by paperwork and looking desperate.

  ‘Tell me some good news, Wes,’ he said as he raised his head. ‘I sent someone round to bring in Pembry and Vernon for questioning but neither of them was in. I said to try first thing tomorrow – drag them away from their breakfast.’

  Wesley sat down. ‘Rachel and I paid a visit to the property company that owns the Jackles Gallery.’

  ‘If you can call it a gallery.’

  ‘Well you’ll never guess who works there – Pauline Howe; Linda Payne’s understudy in the play. I don’t believe in coincidences and neither do you. Besides, I’m sure she owns the scarf we found at Castle View Terrace.’

  ‘Apart from knowing Linda, I can’t think what connection she could have to Jackson Temples, unless she was one of his models. Mind you, her name never came up in the original case.’

  ‘We won’t know unless we ask her.’ He checked the time. It was coming up to six. ‘She wasn’t in when we called round and she’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘We’ll pay her a visit tomorrow. Think we should be treating her as a suspect? She wouldn’t be the first understudy to resort to murder to get the plum role.’

  This wasn’t what Wesley had in mind but no possibility could be ruled out. He was about to leave Gerry’s office when Neil rang. Wesley felt grateful for the distraction from police work.

  ‘Wes. I’ve found something at Strangefields Farm. It was hidden behind some panelling they were removing for restoration.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘It appears to be some sort of diary.’

  ‘Is it connected with Jackson Temples?’

  ‘It looks old; long before Temples’ time. Possibly late seventeenth century.’

  There was a lengthy silence before Wesley spoke. ‘Something similar was found at the cottage of our murder victim. It’s in our evidence store.’

  Wesley had had so much on his mind that he’d almost forgotten about the little book from the file marked ‘diary’ at Linda Payne’s cottage and now he wondered whether that had come from Strangefields Farm too; whether she’d found it during her time there and kept it out of curiosity – or maybe retained it as a relic of times past. He’d wanted to read through it then show it to Neil but the investigation had kept getting in the way.

  ‘I could bring it round to yours tonight. I’ll make a copy for you to read at your leisure if you like.’

  ‘That’d be good.’

  ‘Could you get a copy made of the other one?’

  Wesley hesitated. ‘I’ll try. But things are pretty full on here at the moment so I can’t promise anything.’

  Intrigued, he told Gerry he was going home to think things over and get an early night. Gerry raised no objection and said he was about to do the same because Joyce hadn’t seen much of him over the last few days.

  Wesley had been checking his phone at regular intervals to see if Grace had been trying to call because her lack of communication was starting to worry him. It was in the back of his mind that a Jackson Temples copycat might be emerging from the shadows to pursue a sick re-enactment of his crimes. Though he told himself there was probably an innocent explanation for Grace’s absence, this didn’t stop his imagination working overtime.

  When he arrived home he found Pam in the kitchen.

  ‘My mother’s been doing some detective work,’ she said as she opened the fridge door. ‘Go and ask her what she’s found out. I haven’t seen her so pleased with herself in ages.’

  Wesley did as she suggested and when he walked into the living room he saw Della sitting there with a smug smile.

  ‘Pam tells me you’ve got some information for me.’

  ‘It wasn’t hard. Just a matter of making a few phone calls. I’ve traced Mr Kilin, the photographer. He’s retired and living in Modbury, not that far away.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Teaching mafia. I have a former colleague in Modbury who’s a bell-ringer.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Ken Kilin’s taken up ringing in his retirement.’

  Wesley was rendered temporarily speechless. Then he gathered his thoughts. ‘What about his son, Jonathan?’

  ‘Kilin’s only got one son as far as she knows. Christopher. Married with kids and living in Exeter.’

  Wesley’s hopes plummeted. Then he remembered Stephen Kelly saying that Jonathan Kilin had had a younger brother so maybe Della had found the right man after all.

  There was only one way to find out.

  46

  Soon after Della’s revelation the previous evening Neil had appeared on the doorstep. Wesley had been glad to see him; during his time in the Met he’d known officers who’d had no friends outside the force and he’d vowed never to let that happen to him. Besides, chatting about archaeology, the subject he and Neil had studied together, had helped to take his mind off his problems at work.

  Neil had brought Lucy round with him, which pleased Pam, and after the couple had left Wesley went to bed and lay beside his sleeping wife with the case churning around his brain. Eventually he’d fallen into a fitful sleep around two in the morning, dreaming of Jackson Temples painting Pam’s portrait. She was naked apart from a noose around her neck and Wesley was watching behind a glass screen whic
h he couldn’t break to get to her. He woke sweating, his heart pounding, only to find Pam beside him slumbering peacefully, safe and sound.

  When he rose at quarter to six, bleary-eyed and yawning, he knew he’d drunk too much wine with Neil and Lucy the previous evening; with friends it was always tempting to lose count, especially with Della urging him to open another bottle. But at least it had been a temporary distraction from the case, as well as the growing unease he was feeling about Grace.

  He hadn’t had a chance to make a copy of the diary from the evidence store so he’d felt guilty when Neil produced a photocopy of the one from Strangefields Farm. The sheaf of papers lay tantalisingly on the dressing table as he showered and pulled on his clothes, trying not to disturb Pam, and eventually he yielded to temptation and took them downstairs. He spread them out on the kitchen table and as he began to study them he realised that Neil’s 1666 diary from Strangefields appeared to have been written by the same hand as the one from Linda Payne’s cottage, which made it probable that Linda had found hers there too. He imagined the teenage Linda discovering the mysterious little book and keeping it as her personal treasure; deciphering the handwriting, relishing the story it told, enjoying a secret glimpse into history.

  Fortunately, before he could get beyond the fifth page, he checked the time. Gerry wanted them to make an early start and if he didn’t get a move on he’d be late so he put the copy to one side and grabbed himself a bowl of muesli for breakfast.

  When he arrived at the station he requested a copy of the book from the evidence store while he still remembered, knowing that if he delayed, the investigation would drive it from his mind.

  In the CID office he found Gerry waiting for him. Unlike himself, the boss seemed wide awake.

  ‘Keeping you up, Wes?’ he said when Wesley stifled a yawn.