Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  He opened the file marked ‘diary’ and took out the thing Rachel had described as a ‘scruffy old book’. But Wesley recognised it as something far more interesting. As he turned the pages he could barely make out the handwriting but the odd word leaped out at him and his heart began to beat faster when he caught sight of the date – April 1685.

  If this book was genuine it was an important historical find. The question was, how had Linda Payne got hold of it?

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  4th September 1666

  Frances was a young woman when Reuben married her, some twenty years his junior. At the time I thought her new husband’s riches had attracted her to him and in the past I have been ashamed of this first assumption, especially when their son, William, was born and she proved herself a devoted mother. And yet in my heart I have always nursed a suspicion that all was not well with the marriage.

  Frances is the only daughter of a Colonel Bartholomew who fought for Parliament in the late war – as did many men of Tradmouth, I understand. Reuben himself favoured Master Cromwell’s cause but that is a matter best forgotten now that we have the late King Charles’s son upon the throne of England.

  Frances had said little since her strange utterings about the devil and her refusal to speak about the manner of Reuben’s death. Once my hunger was satisfied I attempted once more to engage her in conversation. I asked her whom she accused of being Satan’s servants but she became agitated and began to weep.

  ‘They destroyed him,’ she said. ‘And they would not tell where he lies dead.’

  16

  Wesley was sorely tempted to pocket the ancient-looking book and go through it at his leisure but he knew he had to stick to procedure so he left it in place to be recorded with all the other evidence. At least that way he’d know it would be kept safe.

  As he drove back to Tradmouth from Linda’s cottage, Gerry sat beside him in the passenger seat, unusually quiet. When Wesley told him about the diary and its possible date he mumbled something about not getting sidetracked.

  ‘I had a quick look at it and saw the name Strangefields,’ Wesley said, unable to get it out of his mind. ‘I told the CSIs to bag it up and bring it in as evidence. We can’t ignore the similarity between Linda Payne’s death and the Temples murders.’

  ‘I agree, Wes. But one thing’s certain. Temples is behind bars so it can’t be him.’

  ‘There’s also the empty “family” file. What do we know about Temples’ family?’

  ‘His mother died when he was small and his dad remarried but soon got divorced. Temples lived with his dad at Strangefields Farm until the old man died and he inherited the property.’

  ‘Had Temples any siblings?’

  Gerry looked unsure of himself. ‘None that featured in the inquiry.’

  ‘What about the stepmother?’

  ‘She shoved off after the divorce and never showed her face again. She was never even mentioned.’

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘Not really. If you were the stepmother of a serial killer you’d decide to keep your head down too. Wonder where she is now. Mind you, if I was her I’d have changed my name.’

  ‘Might be worth finding out.’ Wesley looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to do something this lunchtime. I’ll see you in an hour.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘I need to go to the bank and pick up one or two things for Pam.’ In all the time he and Gerry had been working together this was the first time he’d told him a deliberate lie and he felt a creeping nag of shame. Then he justified his action by telling himself that a full explanation would take too long. Besides, he didn’t want his meeting with Grace to become the focus of Gerry’s notorious Liverpudlian wit; or for it to get back to Pam, who could so easily get the wrong idea.

  He walked away, aware of Gerry’s eyes on him. He knew he wasn’t a good liar – and Gerry was a good detective.

  He was relieved to find Grace waiting for him as arranged, leaning on the rail next to the cannon at the end of the esplanade, gazing out onto the grey waters of the river where boats were bobbing at anchor, some protected by tarpaulins against any coming rough weather. She had her back to him so he stopped a few yards away and watched her, thinking how much she’d changed since they’d last met. She was wearing an expensively cut beige trench coat which flattered her slender figure, and black court shoes: a businesslike outfit which made her look like a city lawyer. Her jet-black hair had been straightened and tied back into a neat ponytail. When he’d known her it had been curly. Natural.

  ‘Hello, Grace.’

  She swung round, startled. Then she smiled. ‘Long time no see. How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She stepped towards him and when he kissed her on the cheek he caught a whiff of her perfume as she held onto his arm longer than he was expecting. ‘Good to see you again, Wes. I had lunch with your sister.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘She hasn’t called you to arrange a meal? She said she was going to invite both of us round one evening.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m dealing with two murder cases at the moment so I’ll have to work late most nights until they’re wrapped up. I’m afraid the timing’s lousy.’ He made a show of examining his watch. ‘I can’t be long. I’ve got a post-mortem to attend in an hour. The chip shop’s this way. It’s not far.’

  He walked down a side street, past the queue of cars waiting to board the lower ferry, and she walked beside him, trotting on her high heels to keep up. The clouds over the river looked ominous.

  The queue at the chip shop was mercifully short so they were soon back on the embankment, seated on a wooden bench looking out over the river.

  ‘Don’t drop any food or you’ll be mobbed by gulls,’ Wesley warned as he helped himself to a fat chip. Grace was eating hers hesitantly as though it had been many years since she’d indulged in such an ad hoc meal and she wasn’t quite sure of the etiquette. ‘I’d eat quicker if I were you. They’re watching us – just waiting for their chance.’

  She eyed the nearby gulls warily. ‘I’ve never liked birds.’

  ‘Well, this lot have all attended assertiveness classes so watch out,’ he said with a grin, realising he was enjoying teasing her; cracking through that polished exterior to reveal a glimpse of the human woman beneath.

  ‘How are your mum and dad?’ he asked.

  ‘OK. I hear your mum’s retiring at the end of the year.’

  ‘That’s right. She says she’ll miss her patients but not the paperwork.’

  They made small talk about their respective families while they ate but as soon as they’d finished Wesley asked the question at the forefront of his mind. ‘You said you’d seen someone from your past and you wanted my advice.’

  Grace stood up to deposit her chip paper and Wesley’s in a nearby bin and he had the impression that she was giving herself time to gather her thoughts. Eventually she sat down again beside him.

  ‘His name was Dale Keyes and he was a client of my partnership. He was developing a warehouse near the Isle of Dogs – luxury apartments; high-end; million plus.’ She paused and Wesley waited for her to continue. ‘He went on holiday in Thailand a couple of years ago and he was on a ferry that sank. It was in the news at the time. Three Britons killed … including Dale.’

  ‘Sorry. Don’t recall.’

  She hesitated, looking down at her fingers before wiping the grease off with a neatly folded tissue from her coat pocket.

  ‘We had an affair. Started off as a bit of fun. No strings. Dale was very charming. Great fun to be with. And I was working bloody hard at the time so … ’

  ‘It became serious?’

  She didn’t answer for a few moments.

  ‘He left owing my practice a lot of money. He claimed some woman who worked for him had ripped him off so he had a cash-flow problem.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  �
�I did at the time but I’m sure there were things he never told me. Although perhaps it was better that I didn’t know because since then I’ve heard he sailed close to the wind business-wise.’ She bowed her head so that he couldn’t read her expression. ‘I fell for him, Wes. Call it an aberration if you like but even successful architects have their Achilles heel.’ She looked up and gave him a sad smile, as though she regretted her vulnerability, the breach in her armour of professionalism.

  ‘Is it worth it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The hard work?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t work hard too.’ She gave a mirthless smile. ‘Only I probably earn a hell of a lot more than a detective inspector. Don’t get me wrong, Wes, I love my job. There’s nothing like that feeling of satisfaction when a project comes to fruition and the clients are thrilled with the result.’

  ‘Let’s get back to Dale.’

  ‘This is going to sound stupid but I think I’ve seen him here in Tradmouth. He was getting off the higher ferry the day after I arrived here and I called out to him but he either didn’t hear or he was ignoring me.’

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t just someone who looked like him?’

  She shook her head. ‘It was Dale, I’m sure of it. He hurried away towards the town and I tried to follow him but I lost him near the library. I think he must have slipped down one of the little side streets.’ She paused. ‘I wondered whether he might have taken the opportunity of the ferry tragedy to fake his death and escape his debts. Or maybe he wanted to get away from someone unpleasant he’d got on the wrong side of.’

  ‘Isn’t it more likely you made a mistake?’

  She shook her head again, more vigorously this time. ‘I’ve always been good with faces. Don’t you remember?’ She grinned. ‘I reckon I’m one of those super-recognisers. Don’t the police use them sometimes?’

  ‘It’s been known. You haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘I’ve been looking out for him, but no.’

  ‘You don’t have a photograph of him by any chance?’

  She took out her phone and scrolled through images until she found a picture of a good-looking man in his thirties with a shaved head and a confident smile. Wesley was sure he’d never seen him before.

  ‘As I said, things are busy at the moment but if I get a chance I’ll make some discreet enquiries about Dale Keyes. That’s the best I can offer, I’m afraid.’ He checked the time again. ‘I need to get back. Are you staying in Tradmouth for long?’

  ‘I’m here for a series of meetings with Joe Hamer, the developer, and the council. Joe’s decided to have a flashy new reception building on the site and the plans have to be approved. Then I’ll be coming back regularly to check on the project.’

  ‘In that case I’ll probably see you soon. I’ll let you know if I manage to find anything out.’

  As he walked off down the embankment he wondered whether her alleged sighting of Dale Keyes had just been an excuse to get back in touch, something she thought might intrigue a man who’d chosen detection as a career. Perhaps the whole thing had been a ruse to get his attention – or to satisfy her curiosity. The Grace he’d once known hadn’t been a liar but he had the feeling she’d changed a lot in the intervening years, almost as if she’d become a different person.

  Pam Peterson had used her lunch hour to drive into Tradmouth, and she’d been relieved to find a free parking space by the library. She needed to buy a present for her mother’s birthday, something unusual, because Della didn’t do ‘ordinary’.

  There was a shop on the embankment she’d hoped might have something suitable and, as she was hurrying there, checking her watch, she spotted her husband with a woman whose stunning elegance made her feel dowdy in her working clothes. He was sitting on a bench with her, chatting and sharing fish and chips, their heads bent together in an intimacy that made her heart lurch.

  Pam forgot all about Della’s present and ran back to her car.

  17

  ‘What have you been up to?’ were Gerry Heffernan’s first words when Wesley returned to the police station.

  Wesley felt the blood rushing to his face. Was it so obvious that he’d lied and met an old flame instead of carrying out mundane lunchtime errands? ‘What makes you ask that?’ As soon as the words left his mouth he knew they sounded defensive.

  ‘You’re breathless. Been running a marathon?’

  ‘I was in a hurry to get back, that’s all.’ He could see the scepticism on Gerry’s face. ‘I … er, bumped into an old friend. Someone I knew in London when I was a teenager. Ended up having fish and chips on the front and a bit of a catch-up.’ He tried his best to make it sound casual.

  ‘Well we wouldn’t want to get in the way of your social life, would we?’ There was an uncharacteristic hint of sarcasm in Gerry’s voice.

  ‘Sorry. I know we’ve a lot on.’

  ‘Good mate, was he?’

  Wesley didn’t correct him. ‘At one time. Hadn’t we better get back to the hospital?’

  Gerry checked the clock on the office wall. ‘Two post-mortems in one day. I’m sure Colin’s killing ’em to keep himself in work.’

  They walked to the hospital. It was nearby and the parking was awkward so it wasn’t worth driving. Gerry said nothing on the journey, which was unusual, and Wesley wondered whether something was bothering him.

  ‘Something wrong, Gerry?’

  The DCI didn’t reply but his open face always betrayed his every emotion and Wesley sensed that he was preparing to share a confidence. Then before he could speak they’d arrived at the mortuary entrance where one of Colin’s assistants greeted them at the door and led them through to the post-mortem room where Colin was waiting, gowned up and ready to make his initial observations.

  Bert Cummings had taken Linda Payne’s place on Colin’s stainless-steel table. Wesley could see a cluster of bloodless knife wounds on his pale naked body but the expression on the corpse’s face was remarkably peaceful.

  Colin kept up his usual commentary and by the end of the proceedings they knew that Bert Cummings had been stabbed eleven times in all. His attacker must have lost control, Colin said, because there was no sign that Bert had tried to defend himself. He might even have been asleep in the chair when the attack took place.

  The pathologist frowned. ‘I think the murder weapon has a blade with a sharp point that widens out to a couple of inches and is serrated at one side.’

  ‘Sounds like a sailor’s knife – the kind you use on yachts,’ said Gerry.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Could it be a similar weapon to the one used on Linda Payne’s face?’ asked Wesley.

  Colin thought for a moment. ‘It certainly looks very similar. But I’ll have to run more tests.’

  Gerry looked at Wesley and frowned. ‘It can’t be the same perpetrator, surely. Linda was knocked out and strangled. This poor bloke was stabbed.’

  ‘Two murders within days of each other, Gerry. We can’t rule out a connection.’ Wesley turned to Colin. ‘Could a woman have done it?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘What about Linda Payne’s murder?’

  ‘As the head injury probably rendered her unconscious, or at least stunned her, strangulation wouldn’t have been difficult. I couldn’t rule out a strong woman capable of transporting the body to the nature reserve – or even the possibility that she was killed near where she was found. Any signs of a vehicle being used?’

  Wesley shook his head. ‘When she was killed it hadn’t rained for a while so our CSIs didn’t find any tracks. However, that spot’s perfectly accessible by car and some marks were found on the bank consistent with a body being dragged to the water.’

  Colin nodded. ‘The level of violence used in both cases certainly suggests a man but if a woman has enough hatred … Hope I’m not being sexist,’ Colin added with a smile.

  ‘So that leaves the field wide open,’ said Gerry.

  Wesley had
never seen his boss look so close to despair.

  Danny Brice was shaking. After finding Bert like that and the effort of calling the police he needed something to calm him down. He’d returned to the squat in Neston, trying to behave as though nothing had happened and hoping nobody would notice the bloodstains on the red leather jacket he’d kept as a souvenir of Kevin – all he had left of him.

  He needed to lie low because he knew he’d left his prints and DNA all over Bert’s bungalow, which meant it would only be a matter of time before they’d come looking for him.

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  5th September 1666

  I spent the night in some discomfort for the bed was hard and the chamber cold as a tomb. I rose at sunrise for I could not sleep and after I had dressed I went to the hall where I had sat with Frances the previous night.

  I had thought to see servants about their business but there was nobody and I was obliged to go to the kitchens where I found John in conversation with the cook, a fat slovenly woman with a bold stare and a filthy apron such as my wife would never have permitted in our own household.

  I bade them good morning and enquired for their mistress but I received a sullen greeting in return and no word of when Frances would break her fast. Realising I would learn nothing if I was not bolder, I asked John what had happened to his master, saying I did not wish to distress his mistress by speaking of the matter in her presence.

  At first the pair said nothing but after a while the cook broke the silence.

  ‘The master was most brutally done to death, sir, by two who were his servants. It was Harry the groom who did the evil deed at the behest of my lady’s maidservant Bess Whitetree. Bess is a devil in the form of an innocent maid, sir. As God is my witness she made fools of us all.’

  Then John spoke. ‘There is talk on the quayside that London is consumed by a mighty fire, sir. Some sailors have seen it.’

  I smiled. ‘That news must be a falsehood for London is a great city. The fire will have consumed but a few low dwellings. I would hear more of my cousin’s murder,’ I said, thinking he desired to distract me from my purpose.