Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

It had seemed strange to be addressed as Kevin but from that moment on there’d been no going back. And now it was too late to tell the truth.

  With the biscuits in his hand Danny approached the front door of the retirement bungalow on the edge of Stokeworthy. It was a village where, in the not too distant past, everybody had known everybody else’s business, but now many of the properties were holiday lets or second homes. Besides, Bert’s bungalow was shielded from its neighbours by a high hedge of leylandii, planted to provide privacy, something Danny was grateful for.

  He’d gained the old boy’s confidence and now he even had his own key, having helped himself to the spare hanging from a hook on the side of the kitchen cupboard.

  He let himself into the bungalow, calling out Bert’s name. Then ‘Granddad. You there? It’s me. Kev.’

  When there was no answer Danny assumed Bert had dropped off to sleep as he sometimes did so he called out again, listening for a reply. But all he could hear was the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the hallway.

  Feeling uneasy, he pushed open the glazed living-room door and saw Bert Cummings slumped in his old armchair, his eyes closed as though he was sleeping. Then Danny saw the red gashes on the old man’s fawn sweater, and smelled the metallic scent of blood.

  11

  Ever since they’d cleared up their last major case – an investigation that had taken the team up into the wilds of Dartmoor – Rachel had developed a fresh enthusiasm for her imminent marriage to farmer Nigel Haynes. She’d made the decision to come to terms with the attraction she’d felt for Wesley Peterson, who’d showed no sign of straying from his wife, especially once he’d learned of her cancer diagnosis. For a while Rachel had nursed a barely acknowledged dream that one day things might change but she was a realist by nature.

  After a couple of hours off work with Gerry’s permission spent in pursuit of the perfect wedding shoes in the pricey shops of Moat Street, she’d called in at the florist’s by the market to see if there was any word of Linda. To her disappointment only Jen was there, looking harassed and saying she hadn’t had time to go round to Linda’s cottage because she’d had a wedding and two funerals to cope with on her own. However, she’d phoned Linda many times, making frantic calls to both her mobile and landline and leaving a number of messages. Where are you? Please pick up. So far all her calls had gone unanswered.

  A couple of weeks ago Rachel had paid an evening visit to Linda’s cottage to discuss her floral requirements because the demands of work meant that she’d had no time to call in at the shop. She’d been surprised that her florist had chosen to live alone in an isolated spot and, despite all efforts to steer the conversation round to the personal to satisfy her natural curiosity, Rachel had failed to learn much about the woman’s private life. All she’d gleaned about Linda Payne was that she was single with no children or pets and came originally from London.

  Linda seemed to be a woman who put all her energies into her business … and her hobby of amateur dramatics. During their meeting she’d spoken enthusiastically about her latest role. She’d been chosen to play the lead in the Harbourside Players’ ambitious production of The Duchess of Malfi, which she’d told Rachel was a tragic Jacobean bloodbath with plenty of dead bodies littering the stage by the time the curtain came down. She hadn’t thought it would be Rachel’s cup of tea as it would remind her too much of work. In spite of her guarded nature, Rachel detected that Linda had a dark sense of humour.

  Rachel had knocked on many doors in the course of her police career and she’d always prided herself on having a sixth sense for trouble. She felt it now as she approached Linda’s cottage; a tingle of fear that worsened when she saw that the front door was slightly ajar. Habit made her put on the crime-scene gloves she kept in her coat pocket before pushing it open.

  The front door led straight into the living room and as she walked in, calling out Linda’s name, the only sound she could hear was birdsong outside the windows. It was four thirty, not yet dark, but the room was gloomy because the curtains were drawn across. She didn’t touch them because her training had taught her never to interfere with a potential crime scene and she checked downstairs before making her way up the narrow stairs, calling Linda’s name again and receiving no reply.

  At first the disturbance wasn’t obvious. On Rachel’s previous visit she’d noticed that the place was fastidiously neat and now only a few tell-tale signs – a drawer in the sideboard downstairs left half open and a trio of books lying on the rug by the coffee table – betrayed the fact that someone had been in there, invading Linda Payne’s private space.

  Rachel peeped in the main bedroom and saw nothing amiss. Then, feeling she was intruding, she left Linda’s inner sanctum and made for the small bedroom she used as an office.

  A row of files stood neatly on the shelves and she fought the temptation to take them down and examine their contents. Most appeared to be connected with the florist’s business, though she scanned the labels for anything of a more personal nature. She saw nothing until she spotted three files lying untidily on the desk. The first was labelled ‘diary’, which Rachel thought looked promising. However, when she opened it she was disappointed to find a small book of ancient appearance containing fragile pages filled with indecipherable handwriting in faded ink. She left it where it was and turned her attention to the second file. This was labelled ‘paintings’ and it turned out to be empty – as was the third labelled ‘family’.

  Once she’d completed her brief search she left the cottage, ensuring the door was locked behind her, and as she walked to the car she had the uneasy feeling that she was being watched.

  12

  When Wesley saw Rachel’s name on his caller display he answered his phone at once.

  She spoke before he had a chance to say anything. ‘I’ve been round to Linda Payne’s house and I’m sure something’s wrong. The door was ajar and I think she’s had an intruder.’

  ‘A burglar?’

  ‘Whoever it was left a brand-new TV. I think we should be treating her as a missing person.’

  Wesley could hear an uncharacteristic note of panic in her voice.

  ‘Can you describe Linda?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘While you were out we had a call from a birdwatcher at Bereton Lake. He spotted a body in the water. A woman. Late thirties. Blond.’

  There was silence on the other end of the line while Rachel took in the information. ‘That could be a description of Linda,’ she said after a few moments.

  ‘Would you be willing to come and have a look at the body – just in case it’s her?’

  There was a moment of silence before Rachel spoke. ‘OK. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Sorry to land this on you when you’re supposed to be having the afternoon off.’

  ‘All part of the job,’ said Rachel, trying not to feel sorry for herself. ‘Do you want me to come to the hospital or … ’

  ‘Yes. I’ll meet you there.’ He paused. ‘It might not be her, you know.’

  ‘I’ve an awful feeling it is. Do you know how she died?’

  ‘Colin’s doing the PM first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘But what does it look like? Could it be suspicious?’

  ‘Colin’s initial thought was strangulation … and there’s a head injury too.’ Wesley hesitated. ‘There’s something else. There are lacerations on her face and Colin thinks they might be stab wounds. If he’s right someone’s tried to disfigure her.’

  Half an hour after Wesley’s departure another call came in and DC Rob Carter made his way to Gerry’s office.

  ‘I’ve just taken a call, sir. Male claiming he found a man dead in one of those old people’s bungalows in Stokeworthy. Rang off before he could give a name.’

  ‘Dead? Natural causes?’

  ‘He said there’s blood.’

  Gerry Heffernan had his feet up on his desk, a picture of relaxation. He leaned back in his chair and glared at Rob, the newest
recruit to Tradmouth CID, as though he held him personally responsible for this latest outrage.

  ‘Thanks a bunch, Rob. We’ve already had one suspicious death today. Is someone out there trying to keep us in work or what?’

  Rob stood there, unsure how to respond.

  ‘Did the call come from a mobile? Can we trace who it belongs to?’

  ‘No, sir. It was made from a landline belonging to the address he gave.’

  Gerry rolled his eyes. ‘Send a patrol, will you? And if the caller’s telling the truth we’d better get a team down there pronto.’

  Rob scurried back to his own desk to set things in motion. It was one of the best desks in the office, next to the window with a panoramic view over the Memorial Gardens to the river beyond. In summer the river bustled with craft, large and small, but now out of season there were fewer boats, only a few yachts making the most of the stiff breeze and the Queenswear ferry which plied to and fro whatever the time of year.

  Gerry stalked out of his office calling for attention. ‘It never rains but it pours. As well as the dead woman in Bereton Lake it appears we might have got ourselves another suspicious death over in Stokeworthy. Anonymous call. Patrol’s on their way so we should know more soon.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Inspector Peterson?’

  ‘Meeting Rachel at the hospital, sir,’ Trish Walton said. ‘The dead woman in Bereton Lake matches the description of her missing florist so she’s volunteered to ID her.’

  Gerry grunted, feeling lost without Wesley’s input. Over the years they’d become a double act; a formidable one, he hoped. He lumbered back to his desk but before he could sit down his phone began to ring. It was the patrol. They’d attended the Stokeworthy address as instructed and found an elderly man on the premises with stab wounds to his chest. The scene had been sealed off and the CSIs called.

  Gerry told the sergeant on the line to arrange house-to-house enquiries and said he’d be there as soon as he could.

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  4th September 1666

  I was given ale and a bowl of stew from the kitchen which I consumed gratefully, for I was hungry from my travels and had eaten nothing at the inn while I waited. Frances sat facing me and I hoped she would order the fire to be lit for, although it was summer, there was a chill in the air.

  She seemed not to notice the cold and ate nothing, sipping at her ale as though she barely tasted it. When I had finished eating I poured more ale from the jug the servant had left and offered some to my cousin’s widow but she refused and stared into the empty fireplace as though she was content to sit in silence.

  But I was longing to hear the tale she had to tell.

  ‘My cousin Reuben,’ I said. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘I have no wish to speak of it,’ she replied. ‘What they did to him is too terrible to contemplate.’

  Then she began to weep bitter tears and I watched her, not knowing what to say to give her comfort.

  13

  Wesley saw the initial look of horror on Rachel’s face vanish to be replaced by the professional mask of the experienced police officer she was. Then she gave a businesslike nod. It was Linda Payne all right. She recognised her in spite of the vicious wounds to her face and the fact that she’d been in the lake for a couple of days at the mercy of the elements and the wildlife.

  ‘It’s always more difficult when it’s someone you know,’ he said sympathetically as they left the mortuary.

  ‘The truth is, I liked her, Wes. Although there was always something … guarded about her.’

  ‘As though she had something to hide?’

  ‘I just assumed she was one of those private people – the type who doesn’t tell you all their business until they get to know you really well. But maybe I was wrong.’

  ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘Not much. She said she’d never married but she didn’t mention any other relationships. She might not have thought it was a suitable subject to discuss with a prospective bride.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Apart from her business most of her time seemed to be taken up with amateur dramatics – the Harbourside Players. She had the starring role in their next production but now I suppose it’ll be the understudy’s big opportunity. They’re doing The Duchess of Malfi.’

  ‘Ambitious for an amateur company.’

  ‘It’s run by a professional theatre director who’s decided to spend his twilight years in Devon.’

  ‘But he couldn’t leave the day job behind.’

  ‘Some people can’t. Think of all those ex-cops who become private eyes or go into the security business. The Harbourside Players did Hamlet last year, you know, and Julius Caesar the year before. The productions get very good reviews, although most of the stuff they do isn’t really my cup of tea.’

  Rachel paused for a moment, as though she’d just remembered something that might be important.

  ‘Linda was strangled. It could be a coincidence, but that’s how her character dies in the play.’

  ‘Or it could be relevant. I think we need to speak to her fellow actors as soon as possible.’

  As they walked back to the police station side by side, saying little, Wesley received a call. It was Gerry to tell him that an elderly man had been found dead in a bungalow in the village of Stokeworthy, apparently the victim of a violent attack. Once Wesley had told Gerry about Rachel’s positive identification of Linda Payne’s body, he broke the news about the Stokeworthy murder to Rachel who looked resigned to the inevitability of her wedding preparations being disrupted by two murders.

  ‘Could this Stokeworthy murder be connected with the recent burglaries? The victims were all elderly.’

  ‘Too early to say. Look, you were supposed to be taking the afternoon off so why don’t you go? Gerry wants me over at Stokeworthy but I’m sure you’ve got things to do.’

  His phone rang again and when he saw the caller was Neil he killed the call, telling himself he was too busy.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Rachel sounded concerned.

  ‘It was Neil. Probably just rang for a chat about that skull.’

  ‘Maybe you should have found out what he had to say.’

  Wesley suddenly wondered whether she was right. Perhaps more bones had turned up – but even if they had, they weren’t going anywhere and he had two recent corpses on his hands.

  ‘I’ll call him later if I have time. Why don’t you get off home?’

  ‘I feel guilty leaving you when—’

  ‘Don’t. The team are down at Linda’s cottage and there’s not much we can do until we know more. I’ll tell Gerry you left before his call about the Stokeworthy murder came through. See you tomorrow morning. It’ll be an early one.’

  Rachel kissed him on the cheek, something he hadn’t expected, and as she walked away he wondered whether he’d done the right thing. They were dealing with two separate murders and perhaps even the reopening of a historic case so they needed all the help they could muster. But it was the time when most people were leaving work and Rachel, who was looking exhausted, would be more productive after an early night.

  However, he couldn’t allow himself the same luxury. He picked up the car at the station and drove straight out to Stokeworthy, a small, pretty village dominated by its medieval church, its stone-built pub and its village hall. The bungalow where the elderly victim had died lay on the edge of the settlement in a small street of council bungalows built in the 1950s in brick that might have been chosen deliberately to clash with the older parts of the village.

  The street was filled with police vehicles and rubbernecking neighbours, their faces shining with interest as though this was the most exciting thing that had happened there in years, which it probably was.

  Wesley parked some way away and walked to the cordon, showing his ID to the sergeant with the clipboard who ticked off his name and lifted the tape to allow him to walk through. He could
feel the neighbours’ eyes watching him as he donned the crime-scene suit he’d been given and he wanted to know if they’d been spoken to. If they’d displayed as much curiosity when the killer had arrived, the case might be simple to solve.

  He entered the house, stepping carefully on the metal plates put down to protect any evidence left on the floor, and found Gerry in the living room, watching Colin Bowman as he examined the dead man. CSIs flitted all around them taking photographs, samples and fingerprints in their well-choreographed ballet of forensic investigation. Wesley stood by the door, taking in the scene.

  It was an elderly person’s room furnished in the style of the 1950s. The style was back in vogue but Wesley knew there was no conscious fashion choice here; these were things the occupant had possessed all his adult life, possibly from the time he’d set up home after his wedding, an event captured in a framed black-and-white picture standing proudly on the mantelpiece of the tiled fireplace. The upholstery was worn and shiny in places and the layer of grime on the scattered knick-knacks told Wesley the house lacked a woman’s touch. As well as the wedding photograph, there were pictures of a girl, a daughter perhaps, in various stages of development. There were also newer pictures of a dark-haired child – possibly a grandson – taken in some large city built of glass and concrete. It could have been America, Australia or Canada; it was difficult to tell because modern architecture gives everywhere an identical look.

  From the evidence he’d seen so far he guessed that the dead man, who’d been named as Bert Cummings, was a widower, alone in the world since his wife passed away, leaving only distant offspring who were in no position to offer day-to-day care. Wesley felt a sudden rush of sadness at the thought of this lonely life ending in fear and violence. From what he could see, Bert had been stabbed a number of times although he could see no defensive wounds on the old man’s arms, suggesting he hadn’t put up a fight.

  When Gerry spotted Wesley, a look of relief appeared on his face. ‘Bad business, Wes. Vicious attack.’