by Kate Ellis
‘When you were working at Fulton Grange did you know a teacher called Bert Cummings who taught maths?’ Wesley asked once the pleasantries were over.
‘Yes indeed. I heard about his murder. Terrible business. Have you any idea who’s responsible?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish,’ said Wesley, reluctant to admit that they were floundering in the dark. ‘What kind of a man was he? Was there ever any gossip about him?’
Although Wesley’s strict churchgoing parents had always taught him that slandering others behind their backs was wrong and such misgivings tend to stick, in his job gossip was a useful tool. Gerry always said you could learn a lot from tittle-tattle.
‘Wasn’t he attacked by a burglar?’
‘Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
Stephen sat down in his armchair and a large tabby cat leaped onto his lap. Wesley saw that Della was listening in silence, keeping her promise not to interfere. He hoped her co-operative mood would last.
‘Bert Cummings was quite strict,’ said Stephen. ‘The kids respected him and he never had to raise his voice. He was one of the old school which meant he probably disapproved of my more progressive teaching methods, although he was always too polite to show it. He was a lot older than me, of course, so we didn’t socialise or anything like that. He had a daughter and a grandson in Canada but I heard the daughter died of cancer and more recently the grandson was killed in a motor accident. Tragic.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Jonathan Kilin.’
Stephen rolled his eyes. ‘Kilin wanted to go to some art club but his behaviour had been appalling so Bert put him in detention and the boy just lost it. Thank God Kilin was never in my class. His parents were decent people as far as I recall and they were horrified by what happened. And I believe he had a younger brother at another school who was no trouble whatsoever. But you get that in families, don’t you? A rotten apple, a quirk of nature. Kilin was clever, mind you. Probably the type who’d go far. They say a lot of captains of industry have psychopathic tendencies, don’t they?’
‘Any idea what happened to him?’
‘The head asked him to leave and I heard his family moved away from the area. Sorry, that’s all I know. I’ll tell you who else was at Fulton Grange while I was teaching there – Jackson Temples, the serial killer. He was the art teacher’s star pupil. She used to sing his praises.’
Wesley stared at him, stunned. This was information he hadn’t come across before, though that was hardly surprising. A serial killer was obviously not the sort of old boy a school would boast about in its prospectus.
‘What do you remember about him?’
‘I never actually taught him. I just remember the art teacher talking about him in the staffroom.’
‘Did Bert teach him?’
‘He might well have done. They were there around the same time.’
Wesley was silent, his mind racing.
‘One of Temples’ victims was at Fulton Grange too,’ said Stephen. ‘Gemma Pollinger. Mind you, she was ten years younger than Temples so they weren’t there at the same time.’ His face suddenly clouded. ‘She was in my class for English but she’d left school by the time it happened.’
‘What was she like?’
‘An average girl – not the sort you’d notice, although I heard she was very good at maths – one of Bert Cummings’ protégées. Shame she left after her GCSEs and didn’t take it any further.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose she got the attention in death she never got in life. The family were dogged by tragedy, you know. Her brother, Graham, killed himself soon after her disappearance. Jumped off a cliff near Littlebury. I taught him too. Not too bright, I’m afraid – easily taken advantage of. I always felt sorry for him.’
‘I’ve spoken to his father.’
There was no mistaking the grief on Stephen’s face. If he hadn’t particularly mourned the unremarkable Gemma, he’d certainly mourned her brother Graham.
‘Did Kilin and Temples know each other?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I think Kilin was a few years younger, but their paths might have crossed – especially as they were both into art.’
There was sincerity in Wesley’s thanks as they left. Stephen had provided them with vital information and there was a lot to think about. Jackson Temples and Bert might have known each other from Fulton Grange, but could Temples be the link between the murders of Bert and Linda? And they had to find Jonathan Kilin. Could a boy who bore Bert a grudge all those years ago have returned to kill him?
As soon as they arrived home Wesley rang the incident room and spoke to one of the officers on the graveyard shift to see what progress had been made in the search for Jonathan Kilin. He needed to speak to him sooner rather than later.
35
Now a few days had elapsed, Grace Compton was starting to have doubts about her sightings of Dale Keyes. She feared she’d made a fool of herself in front of Wesley and the thought made her cheeks burn. Yet the man she’d seen had looked so like Dale that the two men could have been twins.
She’d been working in her hotel room with the plans for the holiday village laid out before her on the desk, but now the digital clock beneath the TV told her it was nine o’clock and she needed a drink; just a glass of wine in the bar downstairs, although with nobody to talk to she always ended up drinking too fast. There were times she wished she’d brought a colleague with her to Tradmouth because she hated drinking on her own, trying to ignore the surreptitious knowing looks and the curious stares. There were some places women hadn’t yet achieved full equality and one of them was in a hotel bar drinking alone.
She looked at her phone, wondering whether to call Maritia, then decided against it. Maritia was a busy woman, and Wesley would be working on his case. The local TV news was full of the two recent murders – the florist and the retired teacher, trawling over every grisly detail. Reporters had even been hanging around Strangefields Farm in the hope of resurrecting interest in the murders that had happened there years ago. They hadn’t yet learned about the skull and the bones that had just been discovered and if they found out the builders would probably be called upon to ward them off, which wouldn’t suit Joe Hamer at all.
She was on her own in a strange town and to her surprise she found herself longing for those days of certainty when she and Wesley had gone to the church youth club together and life had seemed so simple; those days when home had been a place of security and the future had been full of possibilities.
She decided not to brave the bar but she needed a break from work so she grabbed her coat before going downstairs. A walk on the waterfront and some fresh air would clear her head.
She left the hotel and walked towards the centre of town. To her left the water lapped against the embankment, the streetlights reflected on the dark ripples in pools of sparkling gold. The tourist boats bobbed at anchor at the end of pontoons and yachts lay in darkness although some of them showed lights in the cabins, suggesting someone was on board.
There was something strangely calming about the presence of water and she stood for a while inhaling the salty air, ignoring the group of youths on a nearby bench braying as they ate their fish and chips. At that moment she envied their carefree youthful confidence.
She was about to return to the hotel when a figure emerged from the cabin of one of the yachts moored below where she was standing. She could see the man quite clearly in the glow of the nearby streetlight and her heart began to beat faster. There was no doubt about it this time – the way he moved; his unconscious habit of scratching his chin. It was definitely him. She was tempted to call out a greeting but something stopped her.
Then she told herself she had nothing to lose but her dignity – and there was a chance she might even get back the money he owed her. She summoned her courage and shouted out to him: ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
He froze and stared up at her, a horrified expression on his face. Shakespeare’s words ‘a gui
lty thing surprised’ summed it up perfectly, she thought.
‘Grace. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Working. I heard you were dead.’
‘I … er … ’
He vanished into the cabin, bolting like a terrified creature pursued by a wolf. ‘What about that money you owe me?’ she called after him, her words swallowed by the breeze from the river as her heart beat faster.
He’d disappeared below and she didn’t fancy the precarious leap onto the bobbing yacht. He hadn’t wanted to speak to her but he owed her money – and an explanation. If he thought she was giving up that easily he could think again.
Then, to her surprise, he reappeared on the deck.
He stood looking at her for a few moments before reaching out his hand. ‘Well what are you waiting for? Come aboard.’
Danny hugged Kevin’s leather jacket around his thin body and shivered as Barney nuzzled up to him. Stag and Roberta had gone out again; he had no idea where. They always lowered their voices to a whisper when he was around and they never said what they were up to. He suspected they had a secret and he wasn’t sure what they’d do if they thought he was spying on them so he kept his distance.
He contemplated going to the pub to enjoy the buzz and the warmth while making a half last all night. Barney was bound to want another walk, he thought, persuading himself that he was only going to the pub for the dog’s benefit, though the truth was that he didn’t want to be around when Stag and Roberta got back. If they discovered the bracelet they must have dropped was missing they might assume he’d taken it. And they’d be right.
He was on his way out with Barney on the end of his length of string when he noticed Stag and Roberta’s door was ajar. He hesitated, feeling the pull of temptation. Then his curiosity got the better of him and he pushed the door open wider, hovering on the threshold and breathing in the smell of dirty bed linen mingled with stale marijuana smoke.
He began opening the drawers in the battered dressing table but all he saw there was Roberta’s underwear, grey from over-washing. He looked through the contents of the huge shabby wardrobe in the corner, disappointed when he found nothing of interest. Then as he was walking back to the door the creak of a floorboard beneath the threadbare rug that half covered the dusty wooden floor made him stop. He squatted down and when he pushed the rug back he was surprised to see that some of the boards had been cut to form a small trapdoor in the floor. And the cuts looked fresh.
His ears attuned to the sound of the shop door downstairs, he levered up the boards to reveal the hiding place. He sat back on his heels and stared at the cavity between the bedroom floor and the ceiling below.
Apart from in a jeweller’s window he’d never seen so many shiny valuables in one place.
From the first diary of
Lemuel Strange, gentleman
7th September 1666
I will never forget what I saw that night: the putrefying bodies of the young man and maid hacked with knives and axes and the stench of their torn-out hearts burning on the fire the men had lit nearby. Once the heads had been removed they were placed between the corpses’ legs with little ceremony and great stones found to lay upon the bodies.
‘They will not return to torment us now,’ Frances said as we walked back to the hall. I saw a look of triumph on her face. Her husband’s murderers had faced justice. And yet I was uneasy.
‘Where have they hidden the treasure they took?’ I asked.
‘John will continue to search tomorrow,’ she replied.
When I retired to my bed I could not sleep. How I wish my wife had resolved to stay with her father in Islington so she could attend to my affairs and see what can be salvaged from the fire, but she will arrive soon and I am loath to tell her of the dreadful things I have witnessed in this place.
36
Wesley rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well. Jonathan Kilin’s attack on Bert Cummings had been churning through his head. Could a schoolboy who’d once assaulted his maths teacher be connected in any way to his murder decades later? He was intrigued by the possibility that Temples and Bert might have known each other from Fulton Grange. Had he discovered the link between Bert’s and Linda’s murders? Or was the fact that Bert and Temples had both spent time at the same school irrelevant to the case?
Gerry turned up at eight thirty, lumbering into his office without acknowledging anybody. Wesley followed him in and waited until he’d taken his coat off before he spoke. He could tell by the DCI’s expression that he was in a bad mood.
Wesley began with an account of his meeting with Stephen Kelly.
‘If I murdered every teacher who’d ever put me in detention the streets of Liverpool would be littered with corpses,’ was Gerry’s immediate reply.
‘Fulton Grange is a link between our murders. Temples went there and Bert taught there.’
‘Did Linda Payne go there?’
‘No, but I think it’s worth pursuing.’
Gerry nodded. Any connection, however tenuous it seemed, was worth following up.
‘Anything new come in?’
‘That rope the Harbourside Players use in the play to kill Linda Payne’s character has been sent off to the lab. They say the results should be through in a few days. It’s an old hemp rope, the same type Colin said was used to kill Linda, so if the killer’s connected with the play it could be the murder weapon.’
‘Can’t the lab get it done any quicker?’
Wesley didn’t reply. He wished things would happen as quickly in real life as they did on TV dramas.
‘Well there’s no reason to let Lance Pembry know the results aren’t through yet, is there?’ said Gerry with a hint of mischief. ‘Let’s go and ruffle his feathers.’
‘We can send a couple of DCs.’
‘No, Wes, I need some fresh air.’
When they arrived at Lance Pembry’s address in Stoke Beeching Wesley was surprised to find that he lived in a modern bungalow not far from the village centre. Somehow he’d imagined that a London theatre director would have chosen something with a lot more character as a retirement retreat: a pretty cob cottage in the countryside perhaps or maybe a Georgian sea captain’s residence in Tradmouth. The austere 1950s architecture of the house hardly suggested artistic sensibilities.
When Wesley rang the doorbell and waited, Gerry shifted from foot to foot impatiently. After a few moments he leaned across Wesley and rang the bell again, more urgently this time. As the bell’s echoing chimes faded Wesley saw a shape behind the frosted glass. Then the door opened slowly to reveal a woman in a wheelchair. Her black clothing was relieved by a bright scarf around her neck and her long grey hair was pinned away from her face by a colourful hair slide. It was a striking face with strong features and she wore a look of displeasure as the two officers introduced themselves and showed their warrant cards.
‘Lance is in his den in the garden. Go round the side,’ she said as though she was giving orders to a pair of recalcitrant footmen. Her voice was mellifluous, a clear voice trained for the stage.
‘You are … ?’
‘Mrs Pembry. Better known as Isobel Helling in happier times. Lance is my husband.’ There was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice. If Rich Vernon’s hints about Pembry and Linda had any basis in truth perhaps this wasn’t surprising.
Wesley glanced at Gerry and saw that he was impressed. ‘Weren’t you in that series filmed in Tradmouth? The Call of the Sea. Didn’t you play Mrs Cordwainer, the captain’s wife?’
The woman’s expression seemed to soften. ‘How clever of you to remember, Chief Inspector.’
‘Our whole family used to watch it because it was supposed to be set in Liverpool. That’s where I’m from.’
‘I’d never have guessed,’ the woman said with an amused smile. Gerry had been in Devon for many years but he hadn’t lost his Liverpool accent. She sighed. ‘That was a long time ago. Things have changed a lot since then.’ She looked down at her wheelchair. �
�I don’t get out of the house very much these days, never mind working.’
‘Was it your idea to retire to this area?’ Wesley asked.
‘Yes. I fell in love with South Devon while I was filming here. I’d have liked to live in Tradmouth itself but the town’s all hills and different levels which of course is part of its charm. However, I’m restricted to a bungalow on flat ground, I’m afraid.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘You don’t want to stand there listening to me feeling sorry for myself. Go through the gate to your right. It isn’t locked.’
She manoeuvred the wheelchair backwards and shut the door in their faces.
‘You heard what the lady said,’ Gerry muttered before heading round the side of the house with Wesley in his wake.
Lance Pembry’s den proved more impressive than either man had expected. It was a large brick-built studio standing well away from the house. Glass folding doors took up the entire wall that faced onto the long garden, making it a light airy space. They could see Pembry sitting at a large antique oak desk, poring over what looked like a play script, deep in concentration. When Wesley tapped on the glass he started and turned in alarm but as soon as he realised who was disturbing him his face became a mask of innocent calm, although his eyes betrayed his disquiet.
Pembry rose and opened a section of the door to let them in.
‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Pembry,’ said Wesley. ‘Your wife told us where to find you.’
Pembry waved a hand in the direction of a sofa. ‘Do take a seat. What can I do for you?’ Wesley sensed mild hostility behind his polite words. ‘Your colleagues took one of our props away for examination: a rope. When can we have it back?’
‘As soon as we’ve finished with it,’ said Gerry. ‘Shouldn’t be long – provided they don’t find anything suspicious.’
Pembry sounded nervous and Wesley couldn’t help wondering why.
‘Linda Payne used to live in London. She worked at a florist’s in theatreland. Did you know her back then?’