by Kate Ellis
‘You should go.’
She sighed. ‘You’re right. I know we should be sensible. But it’s tempting to play with fire, isn’t it?’
He ignored the remark. The last thing he wanted was a post-mortem about what had been said. ‘What are you going to do about the wedding?’
She considered his question for a few moments. ‘I’m fond of Nigel and we come from the same world. He understands me. He doesn’t even mind the job taking over.’
‘Is fond enough? Can you see yourself growing old with him?’
‘I could ask you the same about Pam.’
He hesitated. ‘And you know what the answer would be.’
She gave him a sad smile. ‘I’ll go.’
‘See you in the morning,’ he said, trying to sound professional. ‘We’ve got a killer to catch and it’s time we found out more about Jackson Temples’ fan club.’
From the first diary of
Lemuel Strange, gentleman
6th September 1666
When Frances retired to her chamber last night I enquired of John as to the meaning of his words. What was this thing that must be done soon and why?
At first I thought he would not answer then he spoke and his words seemed to me most curious.
‘They must be stopped from walking, sir, or else they will return to torment us, for thus it is with evil souls.’
‘You speak of Bess and Harry?’ I asked for he had spoken no names.
‘The killers of my master and the tools of Satan himself,’ he replied with the fire of certainty in his eyes.
I asked him when this terrible deed would be performed and he said it would be that night and I could witness it if I so wished. I told him I had no desire to be present at such an abomination and he left the chamber muttering of demons and evil spirits. The encounter disquieted me and I wondered what Frances thought of the savagery that was about to be wrought on her behalf.
I was soon to have my answer when, to my surprise, John knocked upon my chamber door not long after I had retired for the night, saying that the mistress wished me to go with her and her young son to the ruined chapel by the gates.
29
Danny Brice tied the string to Barney’s collar. It was time to go walkies and, with his newly found wealth in his pocket, he might even treat them both to some bar food: a burger for himself and sausages for Barney. He tickled the dog’s chin and was rewarded with a look of devotion that warmed his heart.
Stag and Roberta had gone out again, which was a relief. He never felt comfortable when they were there, whispering in corners, watching him. They had secrets and he wished he knew what they were – and whether they were planning any surprises for him. He’d sensed a coldness about them, perhaps even a ruthlessness, that made him afraid. Or maybe he was imagining things; since Kevin died nothing had been right, as though there was a gaping hole where his heart should be. Close to tears, he stroked Barney’s soft coat and felt a sliver of comfort, although he knew nothing would be good again.
He stood up and tugged at the makeshift lead. It had started to rain outside so he shoved on his beanie and fastened his leather jacket – the real Kevin’s jacket. It still smelled of Kevin and Danny slept with it every night. It had become his single most important possession.
He reached the pub on the corner and made for the small bar round the side. Not many pubs had separate public bars and lounge bars these days but this one was a relic of times past. The public bar had a battered lino floor and still smelled of tobacco even though the smoking ban had been in force for a decade. Its walls were mustard yellow and its clientele exclusively male. Danny had sold things here in the past, no questions asked, and besides, Vera, the elderly barmaid, had a soft spot for Barney.
He thought it must be his lucky day because as soon as he walked in he saw the man sitting in the corner alone. After buying a half of the cheapest bitter he went over and sat down beside him, waiting for Barney to settle on the grubby floor beneath the table before he spoke.
‘I’ve got something you might be interested in,’ Danny said, taking the bracelet from his pocket and passing it to his new companion under the table.
‘Where did you get it?’ The question was asked in a whisper.
‘Found it.’
‘I’ll give you twenty.’
‘Fifty. It’s gold.’
‘Thirty and that’s your lot.’
‘Done.’
Danny went back to the squat feeling pleased with his small triumph.
It was about time life dealt him some good luck.
On Sunday morning it was Rachel’s turn to drive and the first part of the journey passed in silence. It was Wesley who spoke first, just as they passed the sign to Stoke on Trent. ‘Fancy stopping for a coffee when we reach Gloucester services?’
‘Let’s see how we feel when we get there.’ There was an awkward pause before she spoke again. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean all that to come out.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about. Let’s forget about it,’ he said. ‘Friends?’
‘Friends.’ She revved the engine to overtake a BMW.
After a couple of minutes Wesley broke the silence. ‘Do you think Temples knows who’s copying his MO?’
‘You’re thinking of the people who’ve been writing to him.’ She thought for a few moments. ‘Some people say there’s something sexy about the power killers have over their victims but I can’t see it myself. Let’s face it, Wes, we’ve come across a lot of killers in our job and once we get them into the interview room most of them are pathetic.’
‘Did you think Temples was pathetic?’
‘No. I felt there was something … unhealthy about him. Twisted.’
‘Perhaps that’s what he wanted us to believe. I think he was playing games with us but his reaction to the news of Linda’s death was real enough.’
Once the conversation had returned to murder the atmosphere in the car lightened.
‘Talking of Linda, her assistant, Jen, seemed a bit evasive when I asked her about the shop’s accounts.’
‘Think she’s been cooking the books?’
‘If she was afraid of Linda finding out, it would give her a motive for murder.’
‘Rich Vernon said Linda mentioned something about the shop takings sometimes not tallying. Why don’t you go and see Jen when we get back? Say you want to discuss your wedding flowers.’
There was a long pause. ‘Yes, I’ll still need flowers, won’t I?’
Wesley and Rachel arrived back in Tradmouth shortly after lunch and, while Wesley made straight for the station, Rachel walked to the market where she found Linda Payne’s shop open to catch the Sunday cemetery trade. Jen was taking her obligations to her late employer seriously.
When she pushed the shop door open the bell jangled loudly, startling her and making her jump. She hadn’t realised she was so nervous about visiting the premises with their memories of the woman she’d last seen lying on Colin Bowman’s mortuary table.
She’d expected the sound of the bell to bring Jen hurrying out of the back room to greet the newly arrived customer but there was no sign of her so Rachel stood for a while breathing in the scent of the fresh flowers that bloomed in buckets all around the shop. Even though she was there on police business she couldn’t help admiring the colours and assessing each variety’s suitability for her wedding bouquet. As nothing had been finalised yet it was still preying on her mind.
One display caught her attention. She’d seen it before but it hadn’t really registered until now. In the far corner stood five tall containers wrapped in coils of rope that looped from vase to vase giving the display of tumbling silk flowers a nautical theme.
She called out Jen’s name and a few seconds later the woman herself appeared in the doorway behind the counter wearing an apron that bore the name of the shop above a stylised rose.
‘Hello, Rachel. What can I do for you? Have you come about your wedding flowers?’ Jen soun
ded harassed, as though the situation was beginning to overwhelm her.
‘Can we have a chat? Somewhere private?’ Rachel looked at her hopefully and eventually Jen took the hint and switched the sign on the door to Closed before leading Rachel into the small room at the back of the shop. She’d been there before to discuss her floral requirements with Linda and little had changed. The mugs still stood upside down on the little stainless-steel draining board and boxes of oasis, ribbons and other tools of the florist’s art stood stacked by a tall filing cabinet in the corner. An apron matching the one Jen was wearing hung from a hook behind the door; Linda’s apron that she’d no longer need dangling there as though she could return any moment.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just boiled the kettle.’
Rachel accepted Jen’s offer, watching as she took a pair of tea bags from their box on the shelf above the sink. Jen was very quiet as she poured the boiling water into the mugs and stood with her back to Rachel waiting for the tea to brew.
‘Is something wrong?’ Rachel asked after a long and awkward silence.
‘No … well only about Linda. I still can’t believe anybody would do that to her.’
‘I know. It’s hard.’ Rachel was experienced in family liaison work so she was good at empathy, even though the effort sometimes left her drained.
‘She was always so full of life.’
‘You’ve been asked this before but have you remembered anything – something she said or someone who came into the shop to see her? Anything at all.’
Jen shook her head, her eyes focused on the floor.
‘A colleague of mine spoke to one of her fellow actors in the Harbourside Players. He said she mentioned something about the undead. Zombies. Does that ring a bell? Did she ever mention seeing someone she’d thought was dead?’
The florist shook her head again, more vigorously this time. ‘No. Linda wasn’t into that sort of thing, or not as far as I know.’
‘There was also a suggestion that you’d been taking money from the till.’
Jen looked affronted. ‘I don’t know where you heard that but it’s not true.’ Rachel could hear the hurt in her voice, the pain of the wrongly accused. ‘I borrowed a tenner once when I was short but I put it back a couple of days later.’
‘Would Linda have noticed?’
Jen took a deep breath. ‘She might have done but she never said anything.’
Rachel suspected the ‘borrowing’ hadn’t been a one-off thing but she decided not to press the matter. She left a few moments before she asked her next question. ‘Have you ever heard of Jackson Temples?’
Jen frowned. ‘I know the name but … ’
‘He lived round here – killed three women.’
Jen shook her head. ‘I used to live up north but I think I heard about it on the news. Why?’
‘Linda was his half-sister.’
A look of shock passed across Jen’s face. ‘She kept that quiet – still, you would, wouldn’t you?’
Rachel eyed the filing cabinet in the corner, wondering whether the missing accounts were in there. She could have asked directly but she’d developed a relationship with Jen and was reluctant to upset her again without any solid evidence.
‘By the way,’ Jen said as though she’d read her mind. ‘I’ve found those accounts.’
She walked over to the filing cabinet in the corner and took out a pink file which she handed to Rachel. ‘I’m sure they’re all in order,’ she said as Rachel took them, feeling a stab of guilt.
30
Wesley would ideally have taken Rachel with him to see Gemma Pollinger’s father – she was good with grieving relatives, having the right blend of sympathy and practicality. However, she was out, so he took Trish instead.
The families of Nerys Harred and Jacky Burns had already been spoken to and someone was due to visit Carrie Bullen’s sister in Appledore the following day. So far none of the relatives had been able to supply any new information and Gerry feared that all they were doing was reopening old wounds. But it had to be done.
They’d only just discovered Timothy Pollinger’s whereabouts – a nursing home on the outskirts of Exeter. According to the constable who’d been given the task of tracing the family, Pollinger’s wife had died fifteen years ago, cause unknown. With her daughter murdered and her son having committed suicide, Wesley suspected a broken heart might have had something to do with it.
It was Sunday and when they entered the building the smell of stale roast dinners lingered in the air, reminding Wesley of his visit to HM Prison Gumton Gate the previous day.
They found Pollinger alone in one of the lounges, propped up in a tall winged chair upholstered in a blue wipeable material. An oxygen cylinder hissed gently by his side and he held a small plastic mask in his right hand.
After Wesley had reassured the care assistant who’d shown them in that he wouldn’t tire the old man out, she left and he took a seat facing Pollinger’s chair. The man’s face was ash-pale but his darting blue eyes were the sort that missed nothing.
‘We’re sorry to have to bother you, Mr Pollinger,’ Wesley began.
‘I know why you’ve come. You’ve found her, haven’t you?’
Wesley suddenly felt guilty that he couldn’t tell the man he could finally lay his daughter to rest.
‘We haven’t. I’m sorry. But I’m hoping you might be able to help us. There’s been another murder – very similar to—’
The old man turned his head away and put the oxygen mask to his face.
‘I know it’s hard for you but is there anything you can tell us about the time Gemma disappeared? Anything, however irrelevant you thought it was at the time, that would help us build up a picture.’
When Pollinger spoke again his voice was surprisingly strong. ‘There were things I didn’t say back then ’cause I didn’t want to upset the missus.’ He hesitated and Wesley sat on the edge of his chair, willing him to continue. ‘Our Gemma wasn’t easy. She fell out with us and used to go off God knows where. Disappeared for days on end sometimes. She had a job so she thought we had no right to tell her what to do. We tried our best but … At first the missus hoped she’d gone off of her own accord. Then they found her clothes and necklace at that place and we knew we’d never see her again.’ There was a lack of emotion in his voice; perhaps over the years all his tears had been shed.
‘She was close to your son, I believe.’
Pollinger made a noise that sounded like a snort of derision. ‘Close? Thick as thieves they were. Graham was … easily led. He’d do anything she told him and I reckon he used to cover for her. He knew where she was all right but he never told us, not even when his mum was sick with worry. We gave her everything: best schools; riding lessons; anything she wanted. She threw it back in our faces.’
Wesley could tell his daughter’s behaviour still hurt, even after all those years.
‘While Graham was working for me I knew where he was. That changed once madam had him at her beck and call … ’
‘You ran a business supplying Calor gas to yachts,’ said Trish, who’d looked up the details of the case.
Pollinger smiled as he recalled happier times. ‘Amongst other things. We used to deliver the supplies by boat and the business did well. Had four men working for me including Graham. He wasn’t the brightest but, even so, I would have left the business to him if he hadn’t … ’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Wesley quietly.
‘Gemma had such a hold over him that he must have thought he couldn’t carry on without her.’ Tears were welling in his eyes now as he put the oxygen mask to his face again. ‘Gemma wasn’t easy but she didn’t deserve that. Obsessed with that bloody artist, she was. Wouldn’t listen to reason.’
Wesley looked at Trish. It was time to go and leave the father with his memories.
As they drove back to Tradmouth he felt a deep sadness, as well as fear. When you were a parent you were a hostage to fortune. All you could
do was your best.
31
First thing on Monday morning Neil stood by the side of the trench staring down at the section of wall they’d uncovered the previous day, along with a few pieces of interesting medieval pottery. It wouldn’t be unusual to build a chapel in such a place in medieval times because the lane opposite the gates would have been one of the ancient routes into the port of Tradmouth and journeys would have been arduous and fraught with danger. Finding such a chapel on the way would have given medieval men and women a chance to pray for good fortune in their business dealings or an opportunity to give thanks for a safe journey – a kind of spiritual filling station. There was however still the question of how the place had acquired the name Dead Man’s Lane. Had it once been a place of fear rather than comfort? Neil’s research had confirmed that there was no burial ground near the chapel and the town gallows had stood on the main road to the east so that wasn’t the explanation. He’d have to keep searching for the answer.
His colleagues were experienced archaeologists who could safely be left to their own devices now that the digger had scraped off the top layer of soil. The second trench, the one that had already been partly excavated by the builders, was coming on nicely, although his team had yet to reach the bottom of the disturbed earth. Remembering the call to the radio station, his gut feeling told him there was something down there, which was why he’d given the order to dig slowly and carefully.
He scanned the soil inside the trenches for any more tell-tale signs of building materials and any change in the colour of the soil that would indicate a floor or a robbed-out wall. It had been a while since he’d felt this excited about a commercial dig and he tried to ignore the fact that, even if they had found the remains of an unknown medieval chapel, their prize might still be destroyed when the foundations for the nasty glass reception building were dug.