Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  ‘He’s married, isn’t he?’

  ‘Since when did that stop anybody?’

  ‘Surely you would have noticed if they’d been meeting.’

  ‘Not necessarily. She was the discreet type and some women like to keep their lives in compartments. I was her bit of fun on my evenings off. Other nights I’m stuck behind the bar here so anything could be going on.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill her?’

  He looked at Wesley as though he’d asked a particularly stupid question. ‘Of course not. Linda was great. Hadn’t an enemy in the world.’

  ‘Did she ever mention Jackson Temples?’

  ‘The serial killer? No. Why?’

  ‘What about anybody from her past who’d turned up recently?’

  Rich Vernon gave the question some thought, as though Wesley’s words had resurrected some elusive memory.

  ‘Over the last couple of weeks she’d been a bit … distant in rehearsals. Lance had to tell her off a couple of times. Told her she needed to pull her socks up.’ He paused. ‘And she said something a bit odd last week. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, but I was talking about a film I’d seen at the Arts Centre – The Rise of the Zombies it was called – and I asked her if she wanted to see it.’ He paused. ‘But she said she’d had enough of the undead recently.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s what she said – the undead?’

  ‘She said people rise from the grave in real life so why watch a film about it.’ He hesitated. ‘I thought she was joking – only now, looking back, I’m not so sure.’

  26

  ‘Anything come in on Bert Cummings?’ Wesley asked as he and Gerry walked back to the police station.

  ‘Everyone who’s been in contact with him has been traced and interviewed and there was nothing that rang any alarm bells.’

  ‘Do you think there could be a connection to Linda Payne’s murder?’

  Gerry shrugged. ‘I think it’s more likely to be linked to this spate of burglaries. If Bert challenged an intruder high on drugs … ’

  ‘Danny Brice?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘But the burglaries seem highly organised. Hardly the work of some junkie in need of a fix.’

  ‘You’re right, Wes. And according to Colin the poor old boy was probably asleep when he was stabbed. Which brings us back to the same question: why go to the trouble of killing him? Even if he’d woken up Bert wouldn’t have posed much of a threat.’

  Wesley fell silent for a few moments, deep in thought. Then he spoke. ‘We’ve been regarding Bert as an innocent victim, a harmless old man who was targeted by a heartless thug. What if there’s more to it than that? I went over the possibilities last night when I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Gerry muttered with feeling.

  ‘It was a frenzied attack and I’m starting to wonder whether the stabbing was symbolic. Maybe to send some kind of message?’

  ‘He was a retired teacher.’

  They’d reached the police station and neither man said anything as they climbed the stairs to the CID office. When they arrived Wesley followed Gerry into his office and sat down.

  ‘Are we both thinking the same thing, Wes?’ said Gerry, keeping his voice down. ‘There’s so much of it in the news these days. Historic cases – the flapping of chickens coming home to roost.’

  ‘You think he might have abused some of his pupils?’

  ‘We’ve got to consider the possibility.’

  ‘We’ve absolutely no evidence and before we have any, I’m reluctant to sully the man’s reputation. De mortuis nil nisi bonum.’

  Gerry shook his head. ‘We’ve got to speak ill of the dead in our job, Wes, or the only murders we’d solve would be the ones where the victims were fully paid up saints. Where did he used to teach?’

  ‘At Neston High School, I think.’ He realised that if he hadn’t been dealing with the Linda Payne case his research into Bert Cummings’ background would have been more thorough and he felt annoyed with himself.

  He returned to his desk and found a file lying on the top of his pile of paperwork. It contained Danny Brice’s details and his photograph was attached to the first page with a rusty paperclip. The boy whose face stared back at him was good-looking, what some in the past might have called a pretty boy. He had longish dark hair and even features and his eyes were a bright cornflower blue. There was something open and innocent about his face – which would be a considerable asset for anyone planning to embark on a criminal career. But, according to records, Danny Brice hadn’t put a foot wrong for over six years, which suggested that either he’d turned his life around or that he hadn’t been caught.

  ‘Sir, I’ve just been to see some of the burglary victims as you suggested.’ Wesley looked up and saw Trish standing by his desk with a sheet of paper in her hand. Her face was animated, as though she’d made an exciting new discovery. ‘I managed to speak to three.’

  Dark-haired, sensible Trish was a reliable, if unimaginative, detective. She and Rachel were close friends, sharing a house and, probably, confidences, though from Trish’s manner towards him he was sure Rachel had never shared their now-distant moment of temptation up in Manchester.

  She sat down on the spare chair and leaned forward. ‘When they were first interviewed the only visitors they mentioned were carers, relatives and friends who’d come round in the week before the burglaries. But when I took more time to speak to them over a cup of tea they all said they’d had a visit from a woman from Social Services – all long skirts and scarves, one described her as. She’d carried a clipboard and checked their houses for safety and asked questions about the carers; what time they came and so on. She’d called round a couple of weeks before the places were burgled so nobody thought to mention it.’

  Wesley saw that Trish was looking pleased with herself and suspected there was more to come.

  ‘I contacted Social Services and they told me that no visits had been made to those addresses. The woman flashed an ID card at the victims but they can’t remember the name, which isn’t surprising because they glimpsed it so briefly. Mind you, it probably wouldn’t have done much good if they had been able to read it. What’s the betting the name was false anyway? I think she might have been doing a recce. Taking a look around the place to locate the valuables for when she broke in later on. So if she is our burglar and she broke into Bert Cummings’ place and panicked when she saw him sitting in the armchair … ’

  Wesley caught her meaning right away. ‘Surely she’d just get out of there if she saw him and there’s no evidence of a burglary. There was some good jewellery that most likely belonged to his late wife and it was still in the bedroom.’

  Trish seemed reluctant to abandon her theory. ‘The burglar might have panicked.’

  Wesley didn’t reply. As Trish returned to her own desk he put his head in his hands. Even though they’d brought in back-up from Morbay and Neston to deal with the two cases their lack of progress was frustrating.

  He opened the file on Gemma Pollinger’s disappearance he’d been studying earlier, hoping for inspiration. Temples had freely admitted that he’d met the dead girls at the Green Parrot club and that they’d modelled for him – but he’d sworn they’d all left Strangefields Farm alive. He’d even tried to put the blame onto another artist called Jonny Sykes who, he claimed, had been living there at the time of the murders. However, no witnesses had seen Sykes and no trace of him was ever found, so it was assumed that Temples had made him up to deflect suspicion from himself.

  The jury had decided he was lying and Wesley hoped that after all this time he might be ready to admit the truth. With luck, he might even be able to tell them why someone had copied his MO when they’d killed Linda Payne.

  When he took the file through to the DCI’s office Gerry was on the phone but he signalled him to sit. Wesley could tell the call was annoying him and after a few seconds he saw
him slam down the receiver.

  ‘And have a nice day to you too,’ he hissed at the phone, taking out his frustration on the inanimate object.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Linda Payne’s bank. I’ve been trying to point out to some numbskull in a call centre miles away that we need access to her account and that we’ve got a warrant. Apparently the computer keeps saying no. When there was a branch in Tradmouth we could just walk in and have a word with the manager but now everything’s done online … ’

  Gerry’s face had turned red and Wesley feared for his blood pressure. ‘Oh brave new world that has such problems in it.’

  Gerry looked up and grinned. ‘Our Rosie keeps telling me I’m a dinosaur. She might well be right.’

  Instead of replying Wesley shoved the Gemma Pollinger file across the desk. Gerry took out the photograph of the girl and studied it. It was a school photograph and the girl in the purple uniform looked uncomfortable, as though she didn’t like having her picture taken.

  ‘She’s what my old gran would have called homely,’ Gerry said, glad of the distraction. ‘She’s the only one of the victims Temples never painted in the nude.’

  Wesley looked surprised. ‘Really? Then how do we know she was there?’

  ‘Her clothes were found at Strangefields Farm, hidden in one of the old barns with the other victims’ stuff. He destroyed a lot of forensic evidence when he dumped his victims’ bodies in the river but he couldn’t resist keeping the clothes as souvenirs. There was a piece of metal piping with their blood on it in that barn as well – the pathologist reckoned he’d used it to knock them out. Then there was the knife he used on their faces. Suppose he thought they’d never be found. Turned out to be his big mistake.’

  ‘It guaranteed his conviction.’

  ‘That and his paintings of Nerys, Jacky and Carrie.’ Gerry paused. ‘I don’t envy you and Rach having to interview him. He gave me the creeps and those paintings were downright weird. He painted them naked with ropes around their necks, laid out as though they were dead. Said it was art. He used to go on about the undead. Revenants – reanimated corpses. Like I said, weird.’

  ‘What about the other girls – the ones who went there and got out unharmed?’

  ‘The paintings he did of them were quite … conventional; a mixture of nudes and portraits. Most of his models were identified at the time – they were all local girls so they weren’t hard to find. There were a couple of nude paintings of girls who weren’t located and they were taken to Morbay too just in case they turned out to be victims. But nobody else was reported missing so they were probably just young lasses who were too embarrassed to come forward.’

  ‘Do you think Temples was trying to convince the jury that he wasn’t responsible for his actions?’

  ‘Playing the insanity card. That’s what my boss thought at the time. Only I wasn’t so sure and the jury didn’t buy it. You’ll be able to judge for yourself tomorrow.’

  ‘He never painted Linda Payne?’ Wesley asked, thinking of the photograph found in her loft.

  ‘Her name didn’t come up in the investigation at all.’

  ‘What happened to the paintings?’

  ‘The ones of the victims were brought in as evidence but I don’t know what happened to the others. Hopefully someone put them on a bonfire.’

  ‘Some of the girls who survived gave evidence at his trial, didn’t they?’

  ‘That’s right. Five came forward. They were called for the defence and everyone was keen to save them embarrassment so they gave evidence from behind a screen.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to them.’

  ‘We can try to trace them, although they could be anywhere after all these years.’

  ‘I’d like someone to speak to Carrie Bullen’s family too. Before she killed herself she might have told them something she hadn’t shared with the police.’

  Gerry nodded slowly. ‘Rather you than me.’

  Wesley left the office and stood by the doorway, watching Rachel typing into her computer, deep in concentration. Coming face to face with Jackson Temples wasn’t something he was looking forward to.

  From the first diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  5th September 1666

  My wife wrote that the stench of burning fills the air and every man and woman is come away laden with goods to save and even the sick are carried in their beds. Houses are being pulled down but the fire overtakes faster than this is done. Carts rumble in the streets removing goods from one house to another and my wife has taken some of our belongings to her father’s house in Islington and some she has told the servants to bury in our garden against the flames.

  I would write to her to stay with her father but I fear she has already departed to join me here in Devonshire. She has no liking for her father’s new wife and I suspect this is the reason for her journey rather than a wifely desire to be with me.

  It was difficult to guess Frances’s feelings when I broke the news of my wife’s imminent arrival. Her face was like a mask and I wondered what turmoil of emotion surged within. She has suffered much and I hope my wife will not add to her troubles for she can be most critical of others and their households.

  My conversation with Frances that evening was awkward until there came a thunderous knocking on the door. John looked most concerned as he went to answer and when he returned he was pale as a ghost.

  ‘It is Master Sumner,’ he said. ‘And he wishes to speak with the mistress.’

  Frances rose, staring ahead like a prisoner approaching the gallows. ‘Tell him I cannot see him,’ she said in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘He says the thing must be done soon or we will never sleep safe in our beds.’

  At those words Frances began to weep.

  27

  Wesley had agreed to pick Rachel up at seven thirty the next morning. When the alarm clock shattered the quiet Pam rose too and they both made their way downstairs in silence, trying not to wake Della and the children. This was their time alone; their chance to say their goodbyes. After feeding Moriarty Pam made scrambled eggs on toast even though Wesley had offered to grab breakfast at a motorway services on the way. When she put the plate in front of him he thanked her, whispering, ‘I’ll miss you,’ as he took her hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  She didn’t reply and the rest of the breakfast was eaten in silence. All the words had been said many times before but it was unlike Pam to brood.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he asked as he stood up.

  ‘Should there be?’ Her words were sharp and he flinched as though she’d slapped him.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, wondering if she’d somehow found out about his long-ago lapse with Rachel, something he’d regretted ever since. Besides, nothing had actually happened and there was no way she could know about the temptation he’d felt.

  ‘I’ll call you tonight,’ he said as he snatched up his car keys from the hall table. He hesitated. ‘I’m not looking forward to meeting Jackson Temples. I’ve been bringing myself up to speed on his crimes and—’

  ‘People still call Strangefields Farm “the murder house”,’ Pam said quietly. ‘The kids I teach say the place is cursed and they weren’t even born when it happened.’

  ‘Old superstitions die hard,’ Wesley said before kissing her goodbye, a kiss she didn’t return.

  She stood at the door in her dressing gown and as he drove away he saw her in his rear-view mirror staring after him. He felt uneasy, hoping her cancer hadn’t returned; her last test had been clear but it was the only reason he could think of for her subdued behaviour.

  He picked Rachel up at the cottage she shared with Trish Walton. It was a small, two-bedroomed place of indeterminate age with salmon-pink walls and an incongruously modern glass front door. Rachel answered his knock almost immediately as though she’d been waiting in the hallway. As she shut the door she shouted goodbye to Trish who appeared at the top of the narrow staircase
already dressed for work. They weren’t the only ones with an early start. Even Gerry had promised to be in the office before eight.

  Unusually there were no hold-ups on the motorway and at two thirty-five, after stopping for a sandwich at the motorway services, they arrived at HM Prison Gumton Gate. The prison was situated in the hinterland between the conurbations of Manchester and Warrington and was Category A, high security and reserved for the worst offenders – like Jackson Temples.

  The governor was expecting them so, after the customary searches and confirmation of their identities, they were led to her office. Wesley wanted to know everything there was about the man they were shortly to face.

  The governor was a tall, capable-looking woman in her fifties with short grey hair and a sensible black suit. The only hint of frivolity was a cheerful brooch in the form of a yellow cat; Wesley wondered if she removed it when she wanted to appear more serious and authoritative. Her handshake was firm and when she’d invited them to sit she clasped her hands together and leaned forward as though she was preparing to share a confidence.

  ‘Jackson – or Jack as he likes to be called – is one of our more interesting guests.’ Wesley noticed a hint of a smile and suspected that a sense of humour lurked behind the austere exterior. She probably needed one in her job.

  ‘I understand he’s always protested his innocence.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Inspector. He’s never admitted his guilt.’

  ‘There was a question mark over his sanity at the time of his trial.’

  ‘All the psychiatrists who’ve examined him say he’s as sane as you or me. He knew exactly what he was doing, and the fact that he’s always refused to confess hasn’t helped his case. Neither has the fact that he attacked one of my officers. He claimed he was trying to defend another prisoner at the time but that contradicts what my officer told me.’