Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  The desk-based assessment he’d made of the area surrounding the house had thrown up no potential archaeological problems; no lost buildings or evidence of earlier occupation. The only intriguing feature on the ancient maps he’d examined had been a tiny square building just inside the gates which was marked ‘chapel’ on a map of 1598. By the early eighteenth century the building had vanished from all maps and records, which Neil also found intriguing; but according to the plans he’d seen, that part of the land was to be left untouched which meant that, even if the foundations of a chapel were still beneath the earth, there was no immediate threat to anything of potential archaeological interest.

  From the research he’d carried out back in his Exeter office Neil had learned that the house had been built by a family called Strange in the early seventeenth century. However, by the time Queen Victoria ascended to the throne in 1837 there was no trace of them in local records.

  Strangefields had begun life as a high-status home but over the years it had changed hands many times and for much of its history had been occupied by tenants. More recently it had been owned by a family called Temples, and Jackson Temples, the convicted killer, had inherited the farm when his father died in 1993. He’d lived there until 1996 when he’d been imprisoned for the murders of three women and the attempted murder of a fourth. Since Temples’ arrest the place had lain empty, its notoriety putting off potential purchasers, until it was acquired eighteen months ago at a knock-down price by Joe Hamer, a developer, who would presumably be careful to conceal the house’s dark history. In a less enlightened age the Jacobean house might have been demolished to banish whatever imaginary demons might lurk inside, but fortunately the place was now listed and protected for future generations.

  The narrow road leading to the gates was called Dead Man’s Lane, a name that had whetted Neil’s curiosity when his team had first acquired the contract for the archaeological investigation. The lane had been known as Hall Lane up until the late seventeenth century, presumably because Strangefields Farm had been known as Strangefields Hall in more prosperous days. Then a tithe map of 1690 had showed the change of name, although there was no hint as to the reason.

  Neil was sure the developer would try and ditch this name for something more appealing. And the name of the house – with its disturbing recent associations – would be bound to go too.

  He’d promised Wesley that he’d have a look in the cellar where the skull had been found, which gave him an excuse to pay another visit to the house and to check the area near the gate for evidence of the mysterious chapel while he was at it.

  When he arrived in Dead Man’s Lane he parked on the grass beside the ancient gateposts and as he walked through the gates he was surprised to see a large yellow digger standing twenty yards away, hidden from the lane behind the tall Devon hedge like a predator lying in wait for a victim. Because there were no plans for this particular location, Neil wondered what it was doing there. Then he noticed a patch of bare soil about twelve feet square scarring the ground that had previously been an expanse of rough grassland. The area had clearly been excavated and the soil piled in again with no attempt made to replace the turf as any archaeologist would.

  He felt a stab of irritation. This was something he needed to ask the developer about as soon as possible because he didn’t want him to get the idea he could take liberties with the site’s heritage.

  Still angry, he returned to his car and drove towards the house, taking the pitted drive too fast, and before approaching the front door he put on the hard hat and hi-vis jacket he always kept in the back of his car, knowing the builders would give him a better reception if he looked the part. The tactic worked because the builders, who were drinking tea in the hallway when he walked in, greeted him with ‘Hiya mate. You from the scaffolder’s?’ When he introduced himself they looked wary but the connection had already been made.

  ‘Is the boss about? Mr Hamer?’

  ‘He’s in Exeter.’

  ‘Anyone know anything about that digger by the gate?’

  There were blank looks all round. Perhaps they’d been told to play dumb.

  ‘I understand Inspector Peterson has been here about the skull.’

  The answer was a cautious nod.

  ‘He’s asked me to have a look in the cellar in case there are any more unpleasant surprises waiting down there.’

  ‘There’s still a lot of crap down there but you can go down if you want,’ said Glen Crowther, looking at his mates. ‘You know who used to live here, don’t you? That serial killer, Jackson Temples. I reckon that skull belongs to one of his victims.’

  ‘I’d better make a start then.’

  ‘Rather you than me, mate,’ said Crowther with a nervous laugh as he emptied the dregs of his mug onto the dusty floorboards.

  9

  ‘A call’s just come in, sir. Birdwatcher at Bereton Nature Reserve thinks he’s spotted a body in the lake.’

  Detective Constable Trish Walton had hoped to leave work at a reasonable time so she could look for an outfit for Rachel’s wedding before the shops shut their doors. She and Rachel shared a house just outside Tradmouth and although she was looking forward to the wedding she wasn’t looking forward to having to find another housemate, or to staying alone in the cottage in the meantime. Her colleague DC Paul Johnson wasn’t happy in the flat he was renting in town because of a noisy neighbour downstairs, but she and Paul had once gone out together so she feared that asking him to share would give him fresh hope of resurrecting their relationship. On the other hand, Paul understood the demands of police work, which was important in a housemate.

  Wesley looked up. ‘Has a patrol been sent?’

  ‘A car’s on its way. Do you want me to … ?’

  ‘Let’s wait to see what they have to say. Hopefully it’ll be a floating log.’ Wesley gave her a reassuring smile. Her shift finished half an hour ago and he could tell she was anxious to leave. ‘Why don’t you get off? I can always give you a call if you’re needed.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Although she knew she should accept Wesley’s generous offer, she was suddenly reluctant to go. ‘Something the matter, sir?’

  Wesley’s conversation with Grace was still on his mind but he didn’t think he was so transparent. ‘Nothing that can’t wait till morning,’ he said, not sure whether he was telling the truth. A skull had been found at the home of a notorious killer and then there was Rachel’s errant florist, Linda Payne. But he told himself that Ms Payne was a grown woman and it wasn’t illegal to make yourself scarce for a while.

  He watched Trish go, stopping at Paul Johnson’s desk to exchange a word before putting on her coat. With luck the birdwatcher’s report would come to nothing, but he had an uncomfortable feeling about it – like the feeling he had about his imminent meeting with Grace.

  When half an hour had passed with no word from the patrol, he convinced himself that it must have been a false alarm. Floating debris had been mistaken for human bodies before; he’d known it happen several times in the river. He walked into Gerry’s office and when the boss raised his head he looked like a man with the world’s troubles on his shoulders.

  ‘I’ve been going through the reports on these burglaries again to see if I can spot anything new.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  Gerry shook his head. ‘He does a neat job – no prints and no sign of a break-in. If the stuff wasn’t missing you’d think he didn’t exist. Money and valuable jewellery – it’s happened too many times for some old dear to have imagined it.’

  ‘The victims are all elderly and live alone. Whoever it is seems to know when their carers are visiting.’

  Gerry flung up his hands in despair. ‘We’ve been through all the care companies’ records and there’s no common denominator. Nothing. Zilch. Any news on our birdwatcher yet?’

  As if on cue, Gerry’s phone rang and after a few seconds he signalled Wesley to take a seat and hit the speakerphone button. It was the patrol and
they had news.

  ‘It is a body, sir,’ said the disembodied voice. ‘A woman. No clothes. You don’t go skinny-dipping at this time of year so I think we can rule out an accident.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Gerry. ‘Alert the team and the pathologist, will you?’

  He stood up, his leather chair creaking with relief. ‘You heard, Wes. I’ll give Joyce a call – tell her I don’t know when I’ll be home.’

  Wesley left a similar message for Pam. Suspicious death. Be home as soon as I can. He wondered whether to mention Grace. Then he decided against it.

  The patrol had left the body in situ, although the two uniforms who’d attended the scene had done their best to scare off the scavenging crows by waving their arms about in what would appear to the casual observer to be some sort of strange ritual dance.

  After the officers had dealt with the birds they’d been needed to fend off the press, who’d somehow got wind of the police activity and were now gathering as near as they dared to the action, being shooed back from time to time like a herd of curious cattle.

  When Wesley and Gerry arrived they saw a man, presumably the birdwatcher who’d reported it in the first place, standing some distance away looking awkward and fidgeting with the expensive binoculars slung around his neck. The man had been instructed to stay where he was until the detectives arrived but Gerry, assuming that he’d merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, told one of the uniforms to obtain the man’s full name and address then tell him he was free to go.

  As the man was walking away, glancing back over his shoulder nervously from time to time, Dr Colin Bowman, the pathologist, arrived carrying his crime-scene bag. A few minutes later the CSIs turned up and Colin asked for the body to be brought ashore after the necessary photographs had been taken. Wesley suggested that the uniforms obtain waders and boathooks from the warden’s lodge which stood a quarter of a mile away near the main road. The warden would have to be informed and interviewed along with any other birders they happened to come across, something to keep them occupied while Colin and the CSIs went about their work.

  Once the crime-scene tent had been erected to shield the activity from prying eyes, the body was brought onto dry land and Wesley watched while Colin made his examination. Colin was an affable man, cheerful by nature, but as he probed the body and took his samples his manner was solemn and respectful. Like Wesley, he never forgot that the cadaver in front of him had been a human being: someone’s daughter, mother, wife or sister.

  ‘She’s been dead a couple of days but that’s all I can tell you at the moment,’ Colin said once he’d finished. ‘Postmortem first thing tomorrow morning suit you?’

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Gerry. ‘Cause of death?’

  Colin didn’t answer. The mortuary van had just arrived and the CSIs were bagging up the corpse’s head and hands to protect any evidence that might remain.

  While they worked Wesley took the opportunity to study the dead woman. She was blond, probably in her late thirties or early forties, and her figure was good although she carried a bit of weight around her midriff. Her face appeared to have been badly lacerated but whether this had been caused by the crows who’d pecked at her eyes or by something else, Wesley couldn’t be sure. Her body was so discoloured that it was hard to envisage what she’d looked like in life and as Wesley watched her being attended with such delicate care he felt a deep sadness. Whoever had put her there had stripped her of her clothes … and her identity.

  ‘I can tell you a couple of things before the post-mortem,’ said Colin, rousing Wesley from his thoughts. ‘There’s trauma to the head and I don’t think we can blame wildlife for those wounds on her face. I think someone’s mutilated her – stabbed her face repeatedly.’

  ‘Are those marks on her neck?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Colin. ‘I think she might have been strangled with a ligature.’

  ‘What kind of ligature?’

  ‘Far too early to say, Wesley. But judging by the pattern of bruising, it could be something like a rope.’

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  4th September 1666

  As Frances had ordered, John had brought another horse to the town for my use and he rode behind on an inferior mount.

  The horse was not the best of steeds but adequate for the journey, which was but two miles or slightly more along a rough, steep lane with high hedges concealing all view of the land beyond.

  We came to a handsome gate topped by a pair of fine carved lions which lay beside a tiny chapel falling to ruin and as we approached the house I had little recollection of the place that, to my infant self, had seemed as large as a palace. Now, as it came into view at the end of the long track, I realised it was a mere manor house, little larger than the home of a prosperous farmer. It was built of stone behind a cobbled courtyard where I dismounted, looking for Frances whom I had expected to greet me after my long journey. But my hostess was nowhere to be seen so it was the servant who led me into the great hall and told me to wait.

  I took a seat next to the large stone fireplace which bore the arms of our present King’s grandfather, King James, on a carved mantel, and it was a full half-hour before Frances appeared. I would not have recognised her for in her grief she had become thin and drawn and her hair was peppered with grey beneath her linen cap. When I rose to greet her I noted that her eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

  ‘They killed him,’ were her first words to me. ‘The devil is the father of lies and they are his servants.’

  10

  Neil didn’t like being watched while he was working, although on community excavations open to the general public he’d become used to it over the years. People unconnected with the world of archaeology seemed to find his job fascinating and they’d stare at excavations for hours from behind the safety fences erected to stop anyone venturing too near the trenches.

  As the builders watched him pick his way through the debris in the cellar he guessed it wasn’t archaeology that interested them. Rather it was the prospect of finding more human remains and the chance to down tools while the discovery was investigated.

  Wesley had made the request and he reckoned it wouldn’t take long to have a quick look, although as the house had once belonged to Jackson Temples there was a chance that his search might turn up something major that would bring all work to a halt for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Does anyone know anything about that patch of land that’s been dug up near the gate?’ He’d asked the builders once but he thought he’d try again now he felt he’d got them on side. But again his question was met with silence until eventually the man he’d heard the others address as ‘Glen’ spoke.

  ‘The boss wants to put a reception building down there. He’s had that architect round to discuss it. Ms Compton – black woman; very tasty,’ Glen added with a wink and his colleagues nodded in agreement. Neil concluded that Ms Compton had made quite an impression.

  ‘There’s no reception building on the plans I’ve seen.’

  ‘It’s a new idea. That’s why Mr Hamer’s not here. He’s gone for a meeting with the Planning Department.’

  ‘I wasn’t told about this.’

  The men shrugged as one.

  ‘When’s he due back?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘I saw a digger down there. You’ve started on the foundations?’

  ‘Some of the lads made a start,’ Glen said nervously. ‘Then the boss told ’em to fill in the hole again while he sorts out the planning permission.’

  ‘Well, that site’s not to be touched until I’ve had a chance to discuss it with my colleagues and if you have any trouble with Hamer you refer him to me,’ Neil said, trying to hide his annoyance. ‘Now let’s see what we’ve got in this cellar.’

  All the builders followed him down the cellar steps, glad of a chance to down tools for a while, and watched him, mouths agap
e as though they anticipated some dramatic and gruesome discovery.

  Once in the main cellar he cleared away a rusty bike with its front wheel missing and various pieces of household detritus that might well have been there in Jackson Temples’ day. For the first time he felt uncomfortable at the thought the killer might have owned these things and touched them.

  He was alert to any sign of makeshift graves in the cellar but the floor was bare earth and, to his expert eye, it seemed undisturbed. He turned to the builders.

  ‘Somebody made a call to the radio station – said some bones had been found and someone told them to keep it quiet. Anyone know anything about it?’

  There was an awkward moment of silence, then the builders cleared out of the cellar. Neil had never seen anybody move so fast.

  Danny Brice had remembered the biscuits. Bert liked biscuits. His rheumy old eyes always lit up when he saw the packet.

  He was wearing Kevin’s coat as usual; the red leather jacket that had been its owner’s pride and joy until events dictated that he no longer needed it.

  ‘Is that you, Kevin?’ had been Bert’s first words when he’d answered the door on his first visit. ‘Your father told me you’d had an accident. He said you were dead.’ He snorted with derision. ‘He always was a liar. And a bloody prig.’

  Danny knew he and Kevin had looked so alike they were often taken for brothers rather than lovers and even though he knew the deception was wrong, it had seemed cruel to disillusion the old man who’d looked so joyful at the reunion. ‘I’m very much alive, Granddad,’ Danny had heard himself saying with a reassuring smile. ‘It’s good to see you.’