Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  ‘Mr Hamer. We need a word,’ Wesley said once the man ended the call with a violent jab at his phone.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ He sounded exasperated, as though a visit from the police was the last thing he needed.

  ‘It can’t, I’m afraid. We’ve been talking to your family.’

  The colour drained from Hamer’s face and he froze as though he’d seen some horrific vision from his past. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘We know who you are, Jonathan. You should have told us the truth right away.’

  It was a few seconds before he spoke. ‘What would have been the point?’ he said almost in a whisper. ‘That was in another life and Jonathan Kilin was a loser.’

  Wesley picked up the notebook he’d been doodling in. ‘I’ve seen some of the paintings you did while you were here in the nineties. You have quite a talent.’

  ‘So I used to be told but there’s no money in art unless you’re extremely lucky or well connected. It’s something I dabbled in when I was younger … until I put away childish things.’

  The biblical quote was spoken with scathing irony, perhaps as a reaction to the mention of his parents; a rejection of all they stood for.

  ‘Was this when you used to be Jonny Sykes?’

  Hamer shrugged.

  ‘That’s three identities you’ve used. Are there any others we should know about?’

  ‘No, that’s it.’ There was a challenge in his eyes. ‘OK, I’ve got a past. I’ve done things I’m not particularly proud of.’

  ‘Like murder?’

  Rachel gave Wesley a look which told him she thought he’d gone too far.

  ‘No. I swear I’ve never murdered anybody.’

  ‘We need to talk properly down at the station,’ said Wesley. ‘Either you can come voluntarily or I can arrest you.’

  ‘What for?’ The question came out as a squeak.

  ‘You knew this house very well before you bought it, didn’t you? You lived here in the nineteen nineties when Jackson Temples owned it. How did you get to know him?’

  The man looked frightened now and Wesley knew he had to keep the pressure on. ‘How did you meet Jackson Temples? And don’t bother lying. We still have unidentified fingerprints on file we can compare with yours.’

  Hamer sank down onto the dusty window seat and put his head in his hands as his shell of confidence cracked. Wesley waited for him to speak.

  ‘We met at an artists’ studio someone set up in a disused barn at Tradington Hall. He’d been a few years above me at school but he didn’t recognise me and I didn’t want him to. That school was something I’d rather forget. Anyway, we got talking and he told me he’d inherited this farmhouse and he wanted to set up an artists’ community here. Some community – there were only the two of us. We worked at different ends of the building so we were quite independent of each other.’

  ‘He brought girls back.’

  ‘Women found him attractive, although I always thought he was a bit … weird. He was one of those people who always have a whiff of danger about them if you know what I mean. He used to pick up girls at a club in Morbay – telling them they were beautiful and he was desperate to paint their portraits. It proved a very effective chat-up line.’

  ‘You painted them as well?’

  ‘I mainly stuck to landscapes and seascapes. I was awkward with girls in those days. Didn’t have Jack’s charm.’ There was a long pause. Wesley thought he looked troubled, as though he was remembering something disturbing. ‘I was in a pretty dark place back then. Drugs.’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘Not then but Jack got plenty. He used to say that painting someone’s portrait created an atmosphere of intimacy. He mostly did conventional portraits and nude studies but he … chose certain girls – just a few – to push the boundaries as he called it. He used to call them his “special girls” and they were stunningly beautiful – way out of my league, or so I thought at the time.’

  ‘They were the ones he painted with ropes?’

  ‘He said he wanted to explore the wilder side of his nature. Used to read de Sade and he went on about creating his own version of the Hellfire Club. Do what you will.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I was pretty unconventional back then but to tell you the truth some of the things he used to do and say made me uncomfortable. I wanted to be a serious artist and I thought his … weird tastes were a distraction. It didn’t take me long to reach the conclusion that we wanted different things.’

  Wesley saw that Rachel was listening intently, barely able to hide her disapproval.

  ‘He used those women. Humiliated them,’ she said, breaking the spell. ‘And you did nothing to stop him.’

  Wesley shot her a look, wishing she hadn’t interrupted Hamer’s flow of memories. It seemed she’d got the message because she stepped back.

  ‘What happened to make your arrangement with Temples stop?’

  ‘One of Jack’s “special girls” was found nearly dead; she was in a coma for a couple of months. Then another was found dead and they said she’d been strangled with a rope – just like in Jack’s paintings. I told myself it couldn’t have anything to do with him at first but when another of his girls went missing I got scared. Eventually I cleared out my stuff and went to London because I didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘You think he killed them?’

  ‘Who else could it have been, because I know it wasn’t me? Then when the girl came round from her coma and pointed the finger at Jack … well, the whole thing brought me to my senses. I came off the drugs, gave up all thought of being an artist, went to London and got myself a job with a property company. Then I began my own business, changed my name and tried to forget the whole affair. It made me sick to think about it.’

  ‘Until this place came on the market.’

  ‘It was a business opportunity. That’s all. It’s the ideal spot for a holiday village.’

  ‘Where did he get the ropes?’

  ‘He said they came from an old yacht; some bloke was throwing them away.’

  Wesley paused. ‘You said you weren’t into painting portraits but I’ve seen a couple I think are yours. A young Linda Payne in a gingham dress.’

  A fond look appeared in his eyes, as though he was reliving a happy memory. ‘Jack’s little sister Linda turned up one day after she’d had a row with her mum. Unlike Jack, she was lovely.’

  ‘I’ve also seen the nude painting you did of her. The Rokeby Venus.’

  ‘That wasn’t like Jack’s pictures,’ he said defensively. ‘I wanted to capture her essence.’

  ‘You saw her as your muse?’

  ‘I suppose so. And I felt a bit … protective of her.’

  ‘Mixed feelings then?’

  His face reddened. ‘Yeah, well … but I didn’t want her involved in what Jack was doing so I tried to keep her away from all that.’

  ‘He didn’t paint her with ropes?’

  ‘She was his sixteen-year-old sister.’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘She told me sixteen. Look, Jack might have been sick but he wasn’t that sick.’

  ‘Were you and Linda lovers?’

  He shook his head. ‘It never got that far. I wasn’t very confident with girls in those days.’

  ‘When you were a student at Fulton Grange you assaulted your maths teacher Mr Cummings.’

  Hamer looked surprised at the change of subject. ‘That’s not something I’m proud of now. Cummings made me angry and I wanted to kick out and hurt him. Like I said, I was troubled back then.’ He paused. ‘I heard he was dead, but I promise you it had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘He was stabbed in a frenzied attack. I’ll need to know where you were at the time of his death.’

  ‘I didn’t harm him. Why would I? My parents were so mortified by what I did that they felt they had to move away. That’s the sort of person I was then but I’ve changed.’

  ‘Do people chang
e that much?’

  ‘I’ve channelled all that aggression into something more constructive, more socially acceptable.’

  ‘Jackson Temples said he thought you’d killed the girls. Only by the time he was arrested you’d disappeared without trace and nobody believed you existed. Most of the girls never saw you.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I worked at the other end of the house and Linda was the only girl I painted. She was whisked away by her mother well before it all blew up so she wasn’t even called to give evidence.’ The troubled expression appeared again. ‘I got out quick and erased any sign that I’d been there, apart from my paintings. I couldn’t take them with me.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell anyone that Jonny Sykes existed when it came up at the trial?’

  ‘Even if her mother hadn’t kept her well away Linda knew I had nothing to do with killing those girls so why would she drag me into it? I imagine she thought Jack had done it just like everyone else did.’

  ‘There are some paintings for sale on the internet – yours and Jackson’s.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘It was Linda’s idea to sell them. I should have mentioned before that I met her when I came back here. She’d noticed that the house was up for development and she came up to see what was going on. We recognised each other at once. It was … good to see her again.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘And incriminate myself? I heard about her murder and I thought it better to keep quiet. I don’t know who killed her so what help would I have been?’

  ‘Where did you find the paintings?’

  ‘Here at the house. I was surprised they were still here. The police left the more … conventional ones because they were only interested in the ones that could be used as evidence at the trial. Linda knew someone who worked for a rental company and she asked if we could store them in an empty house while the building work was going on here. I set up the website. There’s been a lot of interest in Jack’s paintings – ghouls I expect.’

  ‘You’ve been passing your work off as Jack’s.’

  ‘The website doesn’t actually say they’re all by Jack but my style in those days was similar to his and people draw their own conclusions.’ He shrugged. ‘It might not be completely honest but it’s not illegal. And if weirdos want to own something painted by a murderer … ’

  ‘What was Jack’s attitude to Linda?’

  ‘He said she was a bloody nuisance – cramped his style. I’m sorry she’s dead. I really liked her. But I don’t know who killed her.’

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

  Hamer stared at him, horrified; the sort of horror that’s hard to fake – but not impossible. ‘I didn’t know. Why hasn’t it been on the news?’

  ‘We’ve tried to keep those details out of the media.’

  ‘Do you think it was someone who’d found out who she was – someone who took revenge on Jack by killing his little sister? Hurting him? Only he and Linda weren’t close so I doubt if her death would upset him that much.’

  As Hamer fell silent Wesley had an idea. He took the photographs he had with him out of his pocket and spread them out on the table. ‘Do you recognise any of these people?’

  It was a few moments before Hamer could bring himself to look. Then he sighed deeply and picked the photographs up one by one, shaking his head at each. Suddenly he stopped and took a picture between his thumb and his forefinger. Wesley saw a flicker of puzzled recognition in his eyes before he shook his head and passed on to the next.

  From the second diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  11th April 1685

  My wife said we should call the constable but I knew Reuben had committed no crime worthy of taking before the magistrate and his claim on Frances’s inheritance was certain in law, for a wife’s property belongs to her husband. Yet I could not allow his deception to go unchallenged for it had caused the death of two innocents at the hands of the mob.

  So it was that later that day I sent John to spread the word in the port that my cousin lived, knowing it would be but a short time before the news reached the ears of Bess Whitetree’s kinsmen. Then, with John’s help, I lured Reuben to the wine cellar, saying I had some good bottles of claret to show him, and locked him in there to await the agents of justice.

  Frances was trembling when they arrived and I showed them to the cellar. As they dragged him out of there he ordered them to unhand him but soon he was begging for mercy. I told him that mercy was something he hadn’t shown to Bess and her sweetheart and he flew at me in a rage but was held back by Bess’s brother who was carrying a rope upon his person.

  I never saw what they did to my cousin but when they buried his body close to where Bess and Harry lay, Frances watched, weeping bitter tears.

  55

  Roberta was still being held in a cell beneath Tradmouth Police Station, awaiting her appearance before the magistrate the following morning. Stag was somewhere nearby but she had no idea where or what he’d told the police. If he’d had any sense he would have pushed all the blame onto Danny, but she’d found out years ago that men were weak and couldn’t be trusted.

  She rose from the blue plastic mattress that smelled of disinfectant and banged on the cell door. If she made enough noise someone would come. Someone would listen to what she had to say.

  When the custody officer peeped in she put her face close to his and whispered, ‘Tell your Inspector Peterson I’ve got important information for him and I’m willing to do a deal.’

  ‘What information’s this?’ The officer sounded sceptical, as though he’d heard it all before.

  ‘Tell him it’s about the murder of the old man. Only I want something in return.’

  The grille in the door shut with a sharp snap. But she was sure the message had got through.

  *

  Grace tried to relax her limbs. She’d always believed that there was a solution to every problem and she needed to think. The thing around her neck was a rope, she was sure of that, and the thought made her shudder. She’d been too engrossed in her own concerns to take any notice of the archaeologists’ talk of hangings and strange burials on the site of the proposed reception building she’d designed. Should she have viewed it as an omen? Was that to be her fate – to meet her death by slow strangulation?

  She fought back tears as she looked around. If she could somehow wriggle out of the noose and shuffle over to the window she could loosen those rotten battens and get at the glass. She took a deep, calming breath then, with a great effort, she manoeuvred herself until she was lying on her stomach. She buried her head in the foul-smelling mattress, pressing her whole body down and trying not to inhale as she inched down the bed. The rope was against the nape of her neck now, then against the widest part of her skull, catching her hair and making her wince with pain. Then suddenly she managed to free herself. The rope had been tied around the mattress in the hope that it would pinion her there but it hadn’t worked and she allowed herself a moment of triumphant rest. Now there were only the ropes around her wrists and ankles to deal with.

  She dropped to the floor and slithered over to the window, glad she was a regular at her London gym. The slats covering the windows were half-rotten and easy to nudge aside with her elbows once she’d hoisted herself into a standing position.

  The next part would be the hardest. As soon as she was satisfied that she’d cleared a good area of window, she closed her eyes and jabbed at the filthy glass with her elbow. As it shattered and she pulled her arm away, the fabric of her cashmere sweater snagged on the jagged glass and she felt it scratching her flesh. She had to get this right or she was in danger of cutting herself badly.

  She turned her back to the window and positioned her tethered hands over the sharp edges, sawing to and fro, cautiously at first then more vigorously as she gained confidence. She could feel the rope fraying and loosening which gave her the courage to carry on even though her whole body
was aching.

  She had to get away. If her captor returned she wouldn’t be allowed to live.

  56

  Joe Hamer, alias Jonny Sykes, alias Jonathan Kilin, had been brought in for questioning on suspicion of murder. But Wesley wasn’t convinced they’d got the right man.

  ‘If Temples killed those girls they must have been in cahoots,’ were Gerry’s first words when Wesley broke the news. ‘My old governor always wondered whether Temples had an accomplice but when we found no evidence of the other artist … ’

  ‘If someone who knew what they were looking for had been allowed to examine those paintings more closely they might have realised.’

  ‘We can all be wise with hindsight, Wes.’ Gerry sounded irritated, almost as though he’d taken the criticism personally. ‘Anyway, hopefully the case’ll be cleared up in time for Rach’s wedding.’

  ‘You don’t fancy Roberta and Stag for Bert’s murder?’

  Gerry suddenly looked unsure of himself. ‘I reckon that’s Hamer’s handiwork and all. He had a grudge against Bert going back over twenty years.’

  ‘According to him that’s something he regrets.’

  ‘People lie to us, Wes. It’s an occupational hazard. Hamer must have been involved in the Temples murders. If he wasn’t up to his neck in it why didn’t he stay and give evidence? An innocent man doesn’t run off like that and even his parents thought he was a wrong ’un. Parents don’t disown their own child like that without a damn good reason.’

  ‘He rejected them, not the other way round,’ Wesley pointed out gently. There were holes in Gerry’s logic but he didn’t feel inclined to enter into a long discussion.

  ‘What about Dale Keyes?’

  ‘He and Hamer were both property developers in the Smoke. Who knows what history they had between them? I’ve contacted the Met to see what they know about him.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Keyes was involved with this architect of yours so maybe he went up to Strangefields Farm and stumbled on something. When we find your ex-girlfriend we might learn more.’