Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  Jen’s small terraced house stood on a narrow street near the market; a dark street where the sun rarely reached, and patches of moss dappled the painted facades of the more neglected houses. Jen’s house, however, was freshly painted, one of the neater properties in the row, and Rachel took a deep breath before pressing the doorbell.

  It was a while before Jen answered and when she did Rachel was struck by how tired she looked, as though she’d been up all night worrying about some intractable problem. Rachel guessed that Jen was probably in her late thirties. She was statuesque rather than fat, with bobbed dark-blond hair, a perfect nose and a neat chin, although in Rachel’s opinion there was something about her looks that fell short of beauty. Today the dark circles beneath her eyes stood out against the pallor of her skin and the off-white top she wore drained her face of colour and made her look ill.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Jen,’ said Rachel as she was led into a small, bland living room where the predominant colour was beige. The thought popped into her head that if Jen lay down on the pale sofa she might disappear into the background. There were mirrors all around the room, maybe in an attempt to make the place look bigger, and Rachel couldn’t help noticing that Jen kept glancing at her reflection.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Linda’s business.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Is it doing well?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘I’d like someone to look over the shop’s accounts. It’s routine in a murder case.’

  ‘I haven’t got them.’

  ‘Are they at the shop?’

  ‘I don’t know. Linda dealt with all that.’ Jen began to pick at a large square plaster on her left hand. Rachel had seen her wearing it before when she’d visited the shop but she guessed cuts and scratches were an occupational hazard for a florist, especially if she was under pressure and prone to carelessness.

  ‘What’s her accountant’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know that either,’ she said quickly. ‘Like I said, Linda dealt with that side of things.’

  Rachel sensed her questions were making Jen nervous but she didn’t press the matter.

  ‘We need another meeting about the flowers,’ said Jen.

  Rachel recognised the deliberate change of subject. ‘Of course. I’ll call into the shop when I have a free moment.’

  When she left she saw relief on Jen’s face, as though some terrible burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Rachel had seen that same relief on the faces of people who had something to hide from the police and all of a sudden she wanted to get hold of those accounts.

  Danny Brice had always had the instincts of a magpie. Shining things attracted him and as soon as he opened the door to the empty shop below where he slept his eyes were drawn to something glistening on the dusty floor, lying in the corner as though it had been kicked there and abandoned.

  He picked it up and held it to the light that trickled in through the filthy windows. The marks on the yellow metal told him it was no cheap trinket.

  He smiled at Barney and dropped the thing into his pocket as the dog wagged his tail.

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  5th September 1666

  ‘Why are the spirits of those who murdered my cousin so unquiet? Could it be that they had no trial?’ I said. ‘We are not savages in this land. A man is entitled to a fair trial before a jury of his fellow citizens.’

  John bowed his head. ‘’Twas justice, sir,’ he said with a hint of defiance. ‘They did the master to death and hid his poor body to cover their crime.’

  ‘What reason had they to kill their master?’

  ‘Wickedness, sir. That and the gold they took from my master’s chest in his chamber. The mistress said they took a great deal and a ring of great value that belonged to her was found in Bess’s chamber.’

  I asked if the rest of the treasure had been found and was told it had not, although men had searched for it diligently. The felons must have concealed it in a good hiding place and, with them dead, John was afraid it might never be found.

  I enquired then if my cousin had other enemies and John and the cook exchanged sly looks.

  ‘Master Treague of Neston believes the master betrayed his father in the late war between Parliament and our King’s father. The old man was imprisoned by Cromwell’s men and died of the fever in gaol so Master Treague vowed to be avenged on the master. But fear not, for Treague was in Bristol when our master died, so Bess and Harry’s guilt is certain.’

  When I enquired about Reuben’s debts I was told the mistress was in sore distress and feared her creditors would soon be demanding payment.

  I dismissed John, intending to go in search of Frances, when a messenger arrived with a letter from my wife saying that our house was in grave danger as flames could be seen at the end of the street. A great fire began at the King’s baker’s house, she said, and had spread, consuming all the houses and churches in its path. Many were fleeing to the country to seek refuge, and she was making the journey to Devon to join me. This news concerned me for, with our London house in peril from the fire, I too might be about to face great losses.

  24

  Jemima Baine was the kind of forensic anthropologist who’d look good on TV, Neil thought; the ideal woman to give archaeology a more glamorous image. Her glossy auburn hair tumbled down over the shoulders of her pristine waxed jacket and she pushed it back with the cleanest hands he’d ever seen on someone connected with his professional world.

  ‘I’ve taken a look at your skull,’ she said, her eyes on the small digger that had just started to scrape the earth away from the trench Neil had ordered to be dug near the gate, on the exact location of the feature marked ‘chapel’ that he’d spotted on the early map. Another trench was being opened where the earth had already been disturbed. Thanks to the yellow digger’s previous efforts the soil there was soft, allowing two of his colleagues to do the honours with spades.

  Neil and Jemima walked away from the noise of the digger’s engine so they could talk in relative peace.

  ‘What’s the verdict?’ Neil asked.

  ‘It’s undergoing tests, so we can’t know anything yet, but I think your first instincts were right. It’s a young female but I suspect it’s over seventy years old.’ She hesitated. ‘I understand it was found in the house of a convicted murderer.’

  ‘That’s what rang alarm bells. I have a friend in the local CID who’s been showing a great interest. I’ve done a geophys sweep on the cellar in case of any undiscovered burials down there but there was nothing untoward,’ he said, sounding slightly disappointed. ‘One of the murderer’s victims was never found and as the skull belonged to a young female … ’

  ‘You thought it might be hers. A reasonable assumption, I suppose.’ Jemima paused and took a deep breath. ‘I found something interesting while I was examining the skull. There was a cut mark near the base – possibly made with something like an axe.’

  ‘A beheading?’

  ‘Or the head was removed after death. It isn’t a deep mark and could have happened post-mortem. If we found the rest of the body I’d be able to tell you more of course.’

  She fell silent, watching the digger as it moved the soil from the trench some way away.

  ‘If the tests confirm the skull is old there’s one explanation I can think of,’ said Neil. ‘A few years ago I came across a burial just outside a churchyard. An outcast from society had been buried in unhallowed ground.’

  ‘I think I know what you’re going to say,’ said Jemima.

  ‘The skull was removed after death and placed by the individual’s knees to stop him rising from his grave: a deviant burial.’

  Jemima nodded slowly but before she could say anything one of Neil’s colleagues standing by the newly dug trench raised her hand and the digger driver cut the engine. She began to wave at Neil excitedly. Something had been found.

  25


  While Wesley sat in the office going through the file on Gemma Pollinger’s disappearance his mind was elsewhere, thinking of Grace.

  The woman he’d met the previous day had been a different person from the girl he’d once known. Harder, colder and more cynical; perhaps even ruthless. He wondered fleetingly whether something had happened in her life to bring about the alteration but he had no time to indulge in amateur psychology. People change. And yet he’d never believed they changed fundamentally.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the Pollinger case. Gemma had last been seen at the Green Parrot club on a Saturday night in August 1996. She had been on her own but two girls who’d known her from her school days said she’d mentioned that she was leaving early to meet someone, although she didn’t say who. It sounded like Gemma was a plain, awkward girl who’d found it hard to get boyfriends which, in Wesley’s opinion, would have made her more vulnerable if a man like Jackson Temples had paid her the attention she craved. Her parents and brother had been unable to add anything useful and the constable who’d spoken to them had noted that the brother seemed particularly distressed. Wesley knew that, sadly, the brother had killed himself shortly after Gemma’s disappearance. He didn’t yet know whether Gemma’s parents were still alive but if they were, knowing their daughter’s fate might bring them a small crumb of comfort in the never-ending nightmare they must have been living for more than two decades.

  Around the point Gemma had disappeared the police had begun to connect the murder of Nerys Harred, whose body had been washed up near the castle, with the attack on Carrie Bullen, but a link to the disappearance of Jacky Burns hadn’t yet been firmly established. Local girls had become cautious when they went out at night, but it wasn’t until Carrie regained consciousness and told the police what she knew about Jackson Temples and Strangefields Farm that people knew who to fear.

  As Wesley examined the file he knew that if he was to make any progress he needed to speak to Temples himself. They needed to find out how he knew Linda Payne and whether she’d been another of his girls; one that had escaped unharmed – until now.

  Gerry’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Come on, Wes, let’s go and give Rich Vernon a wake-up call. Paul says he works behind the bar at the Marina Hotel. Lives in. Let’s get down there.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the governor at Gumton Gate and told her we’ll go and see Jackson Temples tomorrow. It’s a five-hour drive but if we set off first thing we won’t have to stay the night.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got no objection to you staying overnight. It’ll give Rach a nice little break from her wedding stuff.’ There was an innocence in the DCI’s words which showed that he had no idea what had happened last time he and Rachel had gone up north together to interview a suspect. Although Gerry was a good detective he was inclined to believe the best of people he knew and liked. ‘But it’s up to you. I’m off to a press conference at five. They’re gathering like vultures and the last thing we want is for them to get wind of the similarities between Linda’s death and the Temples murders before we’re ready to release any details. If that happens all hell’s going to break loose.’

  Wesley knew Gerry was right. The thought of a copycat killer would send the area into panic and the press would think all their Christmases had come at once. He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s hope we find Rich Vernon in. Maybe we should call ahead.’

  ‘And lose the advantage of surprise?’ Gerry said with a wicked grin. ‘That young man wasn’t telling the truth and I want to know why.’

  The Marina Hotel wasn’t far from the police station so they walked, arriving in the plush reception area of the modern building within ten minutes of starting out. When Gerry asked the receptionist where Vernon’s room was the young woman in the navy-blue suit drew herself up to her full height and looked as though she was about to refuse. When Wesley stepped forward with his most charming smile she seemed to thaw and said she’d ring through.

  ‘We’d rather you didn’t, love,’ said Gerry, putting out his hand to stop her lifting the receiver. ‘We’d like to surprise him. Where can we find his room?’

  The defeated young woman muttered directions. The staff quarters were in the older wing, well away from the comfortably appointed guest bedrooms. After a few false turns down thickly carpeted corridors, they found the room at last. There were no thick carpets here, just shabby linoleum and scuffed doors.

  On the way Wesley had been wondering where Grace’s room was and whether he’d bump into her. Part of him wanted to but the other part – the one that knew he should avoid trouble and temptation at all costs – dreaded the prospect. Then he reminded himself that she would be working; consulting with her client about the design for the reception building she mentioned: the place where Neil intended to sink his trenches.

  Gerry rapped on Rich Vernon’s door and Wesley heard noises from within the room, as if someone was getting out of bed and hurriedly pulling on some clothes.

  ‘Hang on. Won’t be a sec,’ was the cheerful call from beyond the door. Wesley suspected he wouldn’t be quite so cheerful once he found out who it was.

  The door opened to reveal a sleepy Rich Vernon wearing a thin cotton dressing gown that flapped open to reveal the grey T-shirt and boxer shorts he’d obviously slept in. The previous day, with his dark looks and mildly diabolical beard, Wesley had thought he was the sort who’d be perpetually surrounded by a whiff of danger but now he had the bleary-eyed look of a man who’d just woken up in shabby hotel staff accommodation after a late night; just another ordinary man in his late twenties earning a living behind a bar.

  ‘Mr Vernon. Sorry to disturb you,’ Wesley lied. ‘OK if we come in and have a chat?’

  Rich Vernon stood to one side to let them in before checking the corridor. It might not be good for his job prospects if the police were seen to come calling.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Rich, gesturing towards the unmade bed. Wesley and Gerry remained standing but Rich pulled the duvet over the grubby sheets and slumped down, looking up at them expectantly.

  ‘We’ll come straight to the point, Mr Vernon,’ said Wesley. ‘What was your relationship with Linda Payne?’

  ‘You mean on stage or in real life?’

  ‘Don’t try to be clever,’ Gerry growled. ‘You know exactly what Inspector Peterson means.’

  ‘OK, sorry. We were friends. That’s all.’

  ‘You saw each other outside rehearsals?’

  Vernon began smoothing the bedclothes, giving himself time to think – to come up with an answer that would get the police off his back. ‘Sometimes.’

  Wesley waited for him to elaborate. In his experience no interviewee could resist filling a silence.

  ‘Linda was an attractive woman. We were both unattached and she invited me to her cottage to go through our lines. Lance goes mad if you’re not word perfect. We began to spend a bit of time together. Nothing heavy and no strings attached. We’d both had bad experiences in the past so we kept it casual.’

  ‘You used to stay at her cottage?’

  ‘Occasionally. But working here made it difficult. I have to arrange my shifts round rehearsals so rehearsal nights were our only chance to spend the night together.’

  ‘So did you spend the night with her after the rehearsal she attended on Monday evening?’

  ‘No. She said she couldn’t.’

  ‘You were seen with her after the rehearsal.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  There was another long silence. Then he took a deep breath. ‘OK. I waited for her outside the Arts Centre. I was hoping … ’

  ‘For a bit of how’s your father,’ said Gerry with a knowing grin.

  ‘If you want to put it like that. I waited for her in a shop doorway she’d have to pass on her way to the car park and when I stepped out, she pretended to be shocked. But I could tell it was an act. She’d been giving me the come-on all night.’

  ‘You must have been disappoi
nted?’ said Wesley.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘We’re not talking about me. How did you feel when she turned you down?’

  ‘Exactly what you said – disappointed. But that doesn’t mean I killed her.’ The last words sounded anxious, as though he’d just realised how his words might be interpreted.

  ‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ said Wesley. He glanced at Gerry, hoping the DCI would resist the temptation to put too much pressure on the man. In Wesley’s opinion more would be gained by getting him to relax. To his relief Gerry stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Vernon’s face.

  ‘I told her I didn’t start my shift until eleven the next morning so why didn’t we go for a drink – or buy a bottle and go back to hers; we’ve done that a few times. But she said she couldn’t. She had things to do.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘No idea. I thought we were getting on well. Up till then she’d seemed only too keen, believe me.’

  ‘She hadn’t given any indication that something was wrong?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Did she mention anything that was bothering her … however small?’

  He considered the question for a while before he answered. ‘She said sometimes the shop takings didn’t tally and she wondered if her assistant might have been dipping her fingers into the till, but she didn’t like to accuse her because it could have been a mistake. Maths wasn’t her strong point. Apart from that though … ’

  Wesley and Gerry looked at each other.

  ‘Did she mention it to her assistant?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘Don’t think so. It was just a suspicion. She didn’t have any proof.’

  ‘Anything else?’ said Gerry.

  Vernon didn’t answer for a few moments. Then he leaned forward as if he was about to share a confidence. ‘I’ve sometimes wondered whether she and Lance knew each other from when she lived in London. She worked in a florist’s near Leicester Square – theatreland. Used to talk about all the actors and theatre people who used to come in and buy flowers and all the bouquets she delivered to stage doors. When I first joined the Harbourside Players I got the impression it wasn’t the first time Linda and Lance had met. Not that they said anything.’