Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  Then Grace had changed the subject and started chatting about their mutual past, their families and work, but Maritia could tell that the encounter with the ‘dead man’ was at the forefront of her friend’s thoughts.

  Being inquisitive by nature, she tried to dig deeper. Who was the man Grace thought she’d seen? And how had he died? Grace’s replies, however, were annoyingly evasive at first. It was someone she’d known in London; a former client of her practice who’d died in a maritime disaster a couple of years ago; a ferry had sunk in Thailand and over thirty people had lost their lives, including this man. He’d been on holiday, she said; and he’d never come back.

  ‘They say everyone has a double somewhere.’

  Grace leaned towards Maritia and lowered her voice as though she’d made the decision to share a confidence. ‘I’m sure it was him. I’m very good at faces.’

  The intensity in Grace’s words told her she wasn’t talking about a casual acquaintance. ‘Were you and this man … close?’

  Grace looked away. ‘It was just sex. It wouldn’t have lasted.’

  Maritia, the vicar’s wife, suspected that Grace was trying to shock her. But Maritia was unshockable and she knew her friend was lying.

  ‘Are you sure that’s all it was?’

  Grace refused to meet her eyes. ‘He owed my practice money. A lot of money. We had to borrow from the bank and we’re only just getting back on an even keel.’

  ‘Could that be why he chose to disappear?’

  Grace didn’t answer.

  ‘Is there anybody else in your life at the moment?’ Maritia asked, curious.

  ‘There’s a barrister I see sometimes. His family’s from Ghana.’

  ‘You don’t sound keen.’

  Grace’s expression gave little away as she shrugged and tucked into the tagliatelle that had just been placed in front of her.

  After they’d eaten in silence for a while Grace began to ask about Wesley. How was he? As an ethnic minority officer how did he fit into the police force in such a predominantly white area? She knew he’d married a white girl. What was she like? How was his marriage? The anxious note in this final question told Maritia that the answer mattered to her.

  ‘You know Wesley, he gets along with most people. And he and Pam are good. You know she was diagnosed with breast cancer a while ago?’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘Well, she’s had the all-clear, thank God. She still has regular checks of course but for the moment it looks as though everything’s fine.’ She paused, looking Grace in the eye and seeing a flash of disappointment there. ‘You always fancied my brother, didn’t you?’

  Maritia’s wicked side, the part that as the wife of a clergyman she was supposed to suppress, enjoyed seeing Grace squirm.

  ‘He was a good friend.’

  ‘First love. We always have a soft spot for our first love.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  Grace glanced round, fidgeting with her napkin. ‘Fancy sharing a bottle of wine?’ The question sounded almost pleading.

  So that was it. Grace’s high-powered job in London had driven her to the bottle, unless Maritia’s work as a GP, having to read between the lines of her patients’ statements about their drinking habits, had led her into the habit of thinking the worst.

  ‘I’m driving. Can’t risk it, I’m afraid. Look, why don’t you come round for dinner one night? I don’t have much time to cook anything fancy these days so it’ll just be a casserole. You can take a taxi and we can make a night of it. You can meet my son.’ She saw Grace’s expression freeze. ‘Sorry, you’re not into the baby thing, are you? And you haven’t met Mark yet. It’s time you and my husband got acquainted.’

  Grace gave a feeble smile. ‘I don’t go to church these days.’

  ‘In that case I’ll make sure he leaves his dog collar off. He’s nice. I’m sure you’ll like him.’

  ‘I’m sure I will. Sorry I couldn’t make your wedding. Pressure of work.’ Grace hesitated. ‘Will you invite Wesley?’

  ‘If you like,’ Maritia said. ‘And Pam of course if they can get a babysitter,’ she added, fearing things might be awkward if Pam’s presence came as a shock.

  Grace focused her gaze on her food and pushed it around her plate. ‘I’d like to see Wesley. I need to ask his advice.’

  ‘About your dead man? You can always contact him at the police station if you’re worried, you know.’

  ‘I know but I don’t want to make a fool of myself. You’re probably right. It must have been his double.’ She straightened her back, suddenly businesslike. ‘I haven’t told you about the new holiday village I’m working on yet.’

  The subject of the dead man was closed.

  6

  In Wesley’s opinion Glen Crowther’s story had the ring of truth about it. For one thing Crowther was too unimaginative to have made it up; for another the discovery of the skull had obviously frightened him.

  As he was driving back from Strangefields Farm he received a call from Colin Bowman at the mortuary to tell him that he’d handed the skull over to a forensic anthropologist for examination and was awaiting the verdict. Wesley had been wondering about the call to the Community Radio station but now he’d met Glen Crowther he was as sure as he could be that it hadn’t been his voice he’d heard on the tape of the brief conversation, which meant that, unless it was a hoax, someone else had discovered human remains; possibly in a different location altogether.

  When he arrived at the station he was told that Gerry was in a meeting with the chief superintendent so he seized the opportunity to check out the details of the Jackson Temples case, only to find that when the body of Nerys Harred had been found washed up on the rocks below the castle a Detective Sergeant Heffernan, then based in Morbay, had been one of the first on the scene.

  Ten minutes later when Gerry returned to the office, Wesley brought him up to date with the latest developments and saw the colour drain from his face at the mention of Strangefields Farm, the reaction telling him that the case had brought back disturbing memories. But the matter needed to be dealt with so he couldn’t afford to be squeamish about Gerry’s feelings.

  Pressures on the police budget were such that Wesley was inclined to leave it to the builders to report anything untoward they came across in the cellar. Gerry, however, was of a different opinion. One of Temples’ victims had yet to be found, he said, and, as the skull belonged to a young female, they couldn’t say with any certainty that it wasn’t Gemma Pollinger’s, especially as, according to records, Gemma had looked after her teeth in life and had had no dental work. It was amazing, Gerry said, how the small details stay with you even after two decades. Burial didn’t fit with Temples’ known MO but it was a possibility they couldn’t ignore.

  If the skull was found to be recent they would have to halt the work at Strangefields Farm immediately and, although Wesley thought he could rely on Glen Crowther to report anything else he discovered, he didn’t trust the developer to hold the project up voluntarily just to oblige the police. However, there was a way around the problem. Strangefields Farm was Grade II* listed which meant the local conservation officer could poke his or her nose in whenever necessary. And there was someone else who would be able to help out.

  His old university friend, Neil Watson, worked for the County Archaeological Unit. Neil had mentioned a while ago that he was responsible for making sure that any archaeology discovered during the Strangefields Farm development was dealt with properly. If he could keep an eye on things it would cost the police budget nothing and put Wesley’s mind at rest at the same time. He felt a glow of satisfaction, pleased that he’d come up with such a neat solution to his problem.

  As luck would have it Neil was in his Exeter office when Wesley rang, complaining that he was up to his ears in paperwork. He seemed keen to meet Wesley at Strangefields to have a poke around in the cellar, as he put it. The house dated back to the seventeenth century, he said with an eagerness that suggest
ed a desire to escape the office, so it would be an interesting exercise even if they found nothing more gruesome there than an old Victorian mangle.

  Happy that the matter had been sorted, Wesley sat back in his seat, wondering whether to fetch himself a cup of tea from the machine in the corridor outside. He made the decision and as soon as he stood up Rachel appeared with a desolate expression on her face.

  ‘What’s up?’

  She looked round as though she feared they might be overheard.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with the florist who’s doing my wedding flowers. Her name’s Linda Payne,’ she said, perching on the edge of his desk. The short black skirt she was wearing had ridden up to reveal an expanse of thigh and she pulled it down absent-mindedly. ‘According to her assistant, Jen, she hasn’t been in work for the last couple of days and no one knows where she is.’

  ‘She might be ill?’

  Rachel shook her head and a few strands of fair hair escaped from her ponytail. ‘Jen’s been trying to phone her but there’s been no answer.’

  ‘There’s probably an innocent explanation.’

  ‘Jen hasn’t worked there long and I’m afraid she won’t be able to cope with the wedding flowers on her own.’

  The Rachel he knew was a good detective who would have wanted to know why the woman wasn’t answering her phone rather than worrying about flowers, so her words surprised him. But he’d heard that brides – even normally level-headed ones – could develop tunnel vision as their nuptials approached.

  ‘Let’s get this straight, Rach: your florist’s disappeared and you want to report her missing.’

  Rachel hesitated, dragging herself back to her usual role. ‘It’s not like Linda to let anyone down, that’s why I’m worried.’ She frowned. ‘Why would she go off without telling anyone when she has my wedding to prepare for?’

  Wesley relaxed a little. ‘Your wedding’s six weeks away. There’s plenty of time for her to turn up.’

  ‘These things need to be decided well in advance,’ she said as though she was explaining to a child. ‘We had a meeting arranged at the shop yesterday evening to discuss the bouquets. Jen had to deal with it but she admits herself that she hasn’t much experience.’

  ‘Maybe Linda’s been called away on urgent family business and she’s not had a chance to let anyone know. I should stop worrying if I were you.’

  Rachel sighed. ‘I know where she lives so I think I’ll go round. She might be ill … or … ’

  ‘OK. If you’re worried it won’t do any harm.’

  Rachel gave him a grateful smile and returned to her paperwork. At least someone didn’t think she was overreacting.

  *

  Bert Cummings enjoyed listening to the Community Radio because the presenters spoke of things he could relate to. But whatever its virtues, it was rarely exciting; that was why he’d been so surprised when someone had called the phone-in programme claiming they’d found a skeleton, although he thought it had probably been a hoax. Some people had a strange sense of humour.

  He liked company, even that of the carers who came in three times a day to help him, and he’d been feeling a lot more cheerful over the past couple of weeks – ever since his grandson Kevin had turned up on his doorstep saying he’d decided to move back from Canada to live in Neston, which meant he’d be able to visit regularly from now on. Whenever he came he stayed a while and brought biscuits with him. Bert could never resist biscuits.

  When Bert spoke to his carers about Kevin they didn’t seem particularly interested, apart from Suzy. Suzy was the best of them and he was fond of her because she reminded him of his daughter who went to Canada with her family and died of cancer three years ago. Canada was supposed to be nice so he was surprised Kevin had chosen to return to Devon – and he hadn’t acquired a Canadian accent either.

  But that wasn’t the strangest thing. Bert’s memory was hazy about many things but he was sure he remembered someone telling him that Kevin had been in a serious accident. He’d been sure he’d heard Kevin was dead.

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  4th September 1666

  The coach lacked comfort as did the inns where we stayed on the journey. The wildest and most uncivilised country is out of London and worst of all in the North I hear, although I have never ventured so far. They do say that Devonshire is a fair county though I have not visited since I was a child so I have little recollection of it.

  I left the coach in Tradmouth, which is a busy port with a handsome church named for Saint Margaret. So many vessels were on the river there and so many sailors on the quayside that for a moment I thought myself in London.

  The quay stank of fish so much that I was obliged to hold my nose against the stench and it was with some relief that I found the Star, which is a good inn beside the church and the town pillory, where I was met by my cousin’s servant. The man who asked for me had a cadaverous face and there was no smile of greeting from which I surmised that the household still grieves for its master.

  I enquired of this servant, whose name is John, about the circumstances of my cousin’s death and he told me in hushed tones that Reuben’s corpse has yet to be found.

  7

  Wesley heard his phone ringing and hurried to his desk to answer it. The voice on the other end of the line sounded familiar but for a few moments he couldn’t place it.

  ‘Hello, Wesley. Long time no see.’

  Light suddenly dawned. ‘Grace?’

  ‘Amazing Grace as you used to call me. Remember?’ There was a flirtatiousness in her voice that made his heart beat a little faster. ‘I’ve just had lunch with your sister. We’ve been doing some catching up.’

  ‘She never told me you were here.’

  There was a long pause before Grace spoke again. ‘She might have had her reasons.’

  Wesley suspected he knew what those reasons were. Maritia knew that he and Grace had once been close and she felt loyal to Pam, her sister-in-law. ‘What are you doing in Devon? Holiday?’

  ‘No such luck. I’m working. I’m responsible for the design of a new holiday village near Tradmouth. It’s going to be a real asset to the area in terms of jobs and revenue.’

  She sounded like an advertising brochure but he remembered Maritia saying a while ago that Grace’s work had become all-consuming.

  ‘Strangefields Farm? I was up there today. Looks as if it’s going to be impressive.’ He decided not to mention the skull for the time being – not until he knew more about its origins.

  ‘My partnership only does high-end these days. How’s crime fighting?’

  ‘Keeping me busy,’ he said, anxious to get the preliminaries out of the way. ‘It’s nice to speak to you, Grace, but I’m sure you didn’t just call me at work for a chat. Can I do something for you?’

  There was another long silence before she replied. ‘I think I’ve seen someone from my past, someone I never thought I’d ever see again. I need your advice. Can we meet? Lunch tomorrow?’

  Wesley hesitated, suspecting this was a ruse; an excuse to get in touch.

  ‘My lunches tend to be a sandwich at my desk. Like I said, I’m busy. We’re investigating a spate of burglaries and—’

  ‘Surely you can spare an hour.’

  In the face of her determination he gave in, telling himself that a quick lunch would do no harm. ‘OK. Tomorrow. How about one o’clock? Will fish and chips on the embankment do you or are you above that sort of thing these days?’

  ‘Fish and chips might be fun. Remember when we used to eat them out of a newspaper on our way back from youth club?’

  ‘We were fifteen.’

  ‘Those were the days. I’ll see you tomorrow then. I’ll meet you outside the police station.’

  Grace sounded bright, almost brittle, as though she was trying to hide something beneath a veneer of artificial confidence, and as he ended the call he felt uneasy. Grace had never been a worrier and
he’d sensed anxiety in her voice. But there was only one way to find out what this was all about. That was to keep their appointment.

  It was unusual to see crows perched on a floating log like that. At least it looked like a log from where the birdwatcher was standing on the bank of the nature reserve’s freshwater lake. The jet-black birds were pecking at the log just beyond the reed beds with single-minded determination, unbothered by the flotilla of ducks gliding by with their beaks in the air.

  The man raised the binoculars that hung around his neck. According to his fellow birders a great egret had been spotted there but it hadn’t yet made an appearance. Just the black crows, gathered like mourners around an open grave at a Victorian funeral, jostling for position on their small bobbing island.

  He focused his binoculars on the birds and watched them for a couple of minutes with a growing sense of unease. The log seemed to be a strange colour; the colour of green-tinged flesh, and he’d never seen one with hair before. He tried to persuade himself that he was imagining things; that it wasn’t a human body and that he’d look foolish if he involved the police.

  What if he was wrong? What if his fellow birders cursed him for causing a disturbance? What if some rare species was about to take advantage of the thoughtfully provided facilities only to be frightened off by the arrival of hordes of police officers and forensic scientists?

  But after a while he bowed to the inevitable and made the call.

  8

  Neil Watson had already visited Strangefields Farm several times to make sure the developer wasn’t trying to conceal anything archaeological that would hold up the work and eat into his profits.

  He’d seen the model of the new holiday village in the local Planning Office, complete with miniature trees and tiny people strolling through the landscaped grounds and lounging by the open-air swimming pool. The model of the Jacobean farmhouse that was to be transformed into luxury apartments with all mod cons was remarkably accurate, even down to the derelict barns at the rear of the building, converted in the architect’s imagination into leisure facilities – whatever that meant.