by Kate Ellis
‘Sorry, I was just taking some stock out of the drawer. You’re from the police? I was told you’d be here.’
Wesley showed his warrant card, a little disappointed that his occupation was so obvious.
‘I’m Tony Underwood, the proprietor. An inspector and a chief inspector: I’m honoured.’
‘We like to get away from the paperwork from time to time,’ said Gerry cheerily. ‘And there is a bit more to this case than you’ve been told.’
Mr Underwood tapped the side of his nose. ‘Of course. The lad said he’d come in first thing so if you’d like to wait in the back room … ’
Wesley led the way, hoping the lad in question hadn’t been watching the shop and seen them enter. Mr Underwood brought them tea and as they drank he was aware of time passing. When ten o’clock arrived he began to suspect they’d made a mistake arriving so openly and he said as much to Gerry, who’d settled in an armchair exuding an air of zen-like calm.
‘I looked round as we came in, Wes. There was nobody about. The lad’s just a bit late. From the description Mr Underwood gave he didn’t sound like an early riser.’
They heard the shop bell jangle and Wesley sat forward in his seat, suddenly alert, glad that Underwood had one of those voices that carry well so they could make out every word.
‘You haven’t told me where you got them.’
‘My gran left them to me when she passed away. But what am I going to do with them? I’d rather have the cash.’
There was a long silence and Wesley imagined that Underwood was having a closer look at the items, using his jeweller’s loupe to examine any hallmarks. It was a good delaying tactic.
‘How much are they worth?’ The young man was beginning to sound nervous, almost as though he’d started to suspect something was amiss.
‘I’ll give you fifty for the lot.’
This was the signal. As agreed Gerry waited in the back while Wesley, the faster of the two, nipped out of the back door and made his way round to the front. They didn’t want the seller of the jewellery to get away if they could help it.
After a minute or so spent listening to the young man push Underwood’s offer up from £50 to £70, Gerry calculated that Wesley would have reached his post. He strolled out from the back of the shop, trying his best to look casual, in time to see Underwood hand over the cash as agreed.
‘Can I have a look at those?’ he said as the shop bell jangled again. Wesley had arrived and was standing behind the young man, playing the part of a customer waiting his turn to be served. The two policemen were surprised to see that the lad had a dog with him, sitting patiently while his master conducted the transaction.
The young man’s eyes widened in panic and he tugged at the dog’s makeshift lead, preparing to make for the door. Wesley made a grab for the man’s leather jacket but it slid from his grasp and before he knew it their quarry was getting away down the street. Wesley hurtled after the boy. But when he reached the main street there was no sign of him or his dog.
‘He can’t have got far,’ said Gerry when he caught up with him and stopped to get his breath.
‘Trouble with Neston is there are so many alleyways and lanes. If he knows the place he could have taken cover anywhere.’
‘At least we know what he looks like.’
‘And he’s bound to have left his prints all over the jewellery.’
They returned to the shop and bagged up the shiny evidence. To Wesley’s untrained eye, some of it looked good; gold and diamonds glittered in the evidence bag and his first thought was that Underwood’s offer had been extremely mean. Still, that wasn’t his problem.
They drove back to Tradmouth and a couple of hours later they knew the identity of the man who’d escaped them in Neston. Danny Brice’s appearance had certainly changed since he’d sat for the mugshot they’d seen on the computer screen. But he’d left his fingerprints in Bert Cummings’ bungalow – and they were all over the stolen jewellery too.
43
While Wesley was still stinging from his failure to apprehend Danny Brice a call came through from the lab. The rope used in Lance Pembry’s production of The Duchess of Malfi had been examined and traces of DNA matching that of Linda Payne had been found. Not only that but the pattern of the rope matched the marks on the dead woman’s neck exactly and the fibres matched as well. It appeared that they’d found the murder weapon and Wesley felt this was a step forward.
As well as Linda’s, DNA from four other people had been found on the rope. There was Pauline Howe’s, Linda’s understudy, which was to be expected. Then there was that of Ossie Phillips, the man playing the executioner, as well as Rich Vernon’s and Lance Pembry’s.
Wesley selected his home number and was relieved when Pam answered after three rings. He came straight to the point. ‘You know The Duchess of Malfi pretty well, don’t you?’
‘I suppose … ’ She sounded surprised by his question.
‘Can you tell me whether the actor playing Ferdinand would have any reason to handle the rope the duchess is strangled with?’
‘Hang on, I’ll get my copy of the play. It’s in the spare room.’
He’d expected an instant answer but now he realised that it was a long time since their student days and memories fade. He walked over to the window and gazed out at the river while he waited patiently for Pam’s verdict. Eventually he heard her voice again.
‘As far as I can see Ferdinand never actually handles the rope himself. He leaves it to the executioner to do the dreadful deed. Is that helpful?’
‘It might be. Thanks.’ He paused, looking round at his colleagues in the office. ‘Everything OK there?’
‘Maritia’s just texted me from work to say she hasn’t been able to contact Grace but she’s hoping to arrange the dinner for the weekend.’ There was a short silence before she spoke again. ‘I’m sorry about—’
‘My fault. I should have told you I’d met her. I’ll be home as soon as I can,’ he said before ending the call. Grace’s continuing absence made him uneasy but at that moment he had other things to worry about.
Gerry had just walked in, fresh from a meeting with the press officer to bring her up to date with the latest developments. Wesley followed him into his office and broke the news about the latest DNA report. ‘To cut a long story short,’ he continued, ‘Rich Vernon doesn’t handle the rope in the play but his DNA’s all over the ends – in the same place as the actor’s who performs the strangulation on stage. So is Lance Pembry’s but he’s the director so he might have been demonstrating. I’m not sure if it’s relevant but I’d like to talk to both of them again.’
‘Are we sure that rope’s the actual murder weapon?’
‘All they’ll say for certain is that it’s a match for the type of rope used.’ Wesley hesitated. ‘The lab had a look at the nineteen ninety-six forensic reports and they say it’s similar to the rope used to strangle Jackson Temples’ victims but not identical.’
‘Lance Pembry said Linda provided the rope for the production. He thought it came from her shop, although he wasn’t able to swear to it. I’d like to bring Rich Vernon and Lance Pembry in for an interview under caution sooner rather than later.’
Before Gerry could say anything Rachel appeared in the doorway. ‘Any sign of Danny Brice yet?’ Wesley asked hopefully.
‘Not yet. But all patrols are on the lookout.’
‘With that red leather jacket and the dog he shouldn’t be hard to spot,’ said Gerry.
Rachel looked impatient, as though she had important news to relay. ‘Those Jackson Temples paintings – the ones for sale on the internet? We’ve got an address for the Jackles Gallery – and it’s here in Tradmouth. Jackles: a combination of Jackson and Temples. Not very subtle.’
As Gerry stood up his chair creaked as though it was glad to be relieved of his weight. ‘If we’ve got an address let’s get round there and have a word with whoever’s in charge – find out what kind of ghouls want a pain
ting by a serial killer hanging on their living-room wall. No time like the present.’
The Jackles Gallery wasn’t in the centre of town like most Tradmouth galleries designed to reel in the wealthier tourists. Instead the address turned out to be a private house in a terrace overlooking the river on the road to the castle. The glossy paint on the front door was fresh and the house, probably built for a retired sea captain, looked smarter than its neighbours. There was no reply when Wesley rang the doorbell and no sign of life behind the sheer white curtains at the windows.
‘Let’s have a word with the neighbours,’ said Gerry.
Before Wesley could answer Gerry had knocked on the door of the neighbouring house, raising the heavy lion door knocker and letting it fall with a crash.
The door opened to reveal an elderly lady with steel-grey hair gathered back in a bun. At first glance she looked like an old-fashioned schoolmistress but then Wesley noticed the short denim skirt she wore over brightly striped tights.
‘Sorry to bother you, love,’ said Gerry. ‘We’re trying to get hold of your next-door neighbour. You don’t know where we can find him by any chance?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I don’t have a neighbour. I’d feel a lot safer if I did.’ Seeing Wesley’s questioning look, she carried on. ‘Nobody’s been living there for the past six months. There was talk of it being made into a holiday let and I think I’d prefer that to an empty house.’
‘Do you know who owns it?’
‘Bayside Properties they call themselves but if you ask me it’s a fly-by-night outfit. I’ve seen this man come here, sharp suits and a BMW – wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. And I saw a couple of girls too.’
‘Girls?’
‘Women then. When you get to my age everyone younger seems like a girl.’
When she invited them in Wesley was tempted to accept because her loneliness was almost palpable. But there wasn’t time for good deeds so he thanked her and said they might be in touch.
He was about to walk away when she spoke again. ‘I’ve got a key. Old Mrs Morton who used to live there gave me one and I never gave it back. You can have a look inside if you’re interested.’
‘Of course we’re interested, love,’ said Gerry, beaming.
She vanished into her house and came back with a key dangling from her fingers. She handed it to Gerry with a coquettish smile.
‘Thanks, love. I could kiss you,’ said Gerry, making the old lady giggle like a schoolgirl.
‘Have you ever heard of the Jackles Gallery?’ Wesley asked. ‘It’s an outfit that sells paintings, possibly from next-door’s address.’
The old lady shook her head.
‘You can leave it to us now, love,’ said Gerry. ‘We’ll drop the key in as soon as we’ve finished.’
The woman’s cheery smile told Wesley she was looking forward to this second encounter.
‘We’ll have time for a cup of tea when we’ve done,’ said Gerry after she’d shut the door as though he’d read Wesley’s mind. ‘Who knows what we might learn. Never underestimate the Miss Marple effect.’
The first things that struck Wesley as they entered the house were the stillness and the fact that the place was spotlessly clean and newly decorated. The neutral colours gave it a bright, spacious look and Wesley could smell the distinctive scent of new carpets. When he pushed open the door to the front room he saw that it was sparsely furnished with modern, light-coloured pieces in the Scandinavian style.
‘Looks pretty bare,’ said Gerry, disappointed, as Wesley led the way through to the back of the house where they found another reception room as bland as the first. It had the feel of a recently renovated property, stripped of its character and waiting for an occupant to make their mark on it.
‘Let’s try upstairs.’ Wesley was starting to feel their trip had been wasted and that the address was an empty property chosen at random to add authenticity. The Jackles Gallery might not even exist, apart from in cyberspace.
They started at the front in the unfurnished bedroom overlooking the river. The view alone would double the market value and Wesley couldn’t help wondering why the property company had left it unoccupied. A row of white fitted wardrobes occupied one wall and Wesley opened one of the doors.
As soon as he saw what was inside he shouted to Gerry, who was gazing out of the window, watching a large yacht in full sail making its stately way upstream.
‘Look what I’ve found.’
Stacked up inside the wardrobes he could see bright canvases, a mixture of landscapes, portraits and seascapes in oils with heavy, impressionistic brush strokes, best viewed from a distance but undoubtedly the work of a talented hand. Wesley heard Gerry gasp and he swung round to see the boss staring open-mouthed in amazement … or horror.
‘Are they by Temples?’
‘Either that or someone’s made a good job of copying his style. And there’s his initials in the corner – JT. He always signed his work like that as I remember.’ Gerry turned away as though he couldn’t bear to look at the things. ‘Close that bloody door, Wes. I’ve seen enough of Temples’ daubs to last a lifetime.’
‘They’re good. Not at all what I was expecting. Very tasteful and not a rope in sight,’ said Wesley. ‘He had quite a reputation as an artist before the case blew up. Made a good living from it. The kinky stuff – or experimental as he called it – was just a sideline.’
Gerry seemed eager to get out of that room with its reminder of Jackson Temples’ crimes. He mumbled something about having a look in the other rooms and shot out but Wesley lingered because he wanted to have a closer look at the paintings. He opened the wardrobe door again and squatted down, examining each picture carefully but concentrating on the portraits.
There were portraits of attractive young women and he recognised Jane Webster posing modestly in a pale-blue dress. There was another of Jane too, a conventional nude study which captured her youthful beauty.
He carried on examining the paintings and recognised Jacky Burns and Nerys Harred, their flawless features familiar from the files he’d spent so much time studying. But again these were conventional portraits: nothing disturbing and certainly no sign of ropes. Perhaps Temples had kept that for when he knew the girls better and they’d become more relaxed with him.
He saw Carrie Bullen with her beautiful heart-shaped face in an off-the-shoulder top, her bare shoulders providing a faint hint of nudity, and there was a picture of Gemma Pollinger, posed in profile, again fully clothed. She had a snub nose and a prominent chin.
He called through to Gerry. ‘Weren’t all the portraits he did of his victims taken as evidence?’
Gerry appeared at the door. ‘Only the kinky ones with ropes.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I think they took a few pictures of a couple of girls they hadn’t been able to trace and all, just in case. At one time the basement at Morbay nick looked like the storeroom of an art gallery. Only the rope ones were produced at the trial; the others weren’t regarded as evidence.’
‘I want to know who brought them here and is selling them, and how they got hold of them. Next stop Bayside Properties, I think.’
‘After we’ve had our cup of tea next door. There might even be biccies,’ said Gerry. ‘The paintings were probably left at Strangefields Farm and someone took them once the investigation was over – the stepmother perhaps, Linda’s mum.’ Gerry turned his face away, concealing his emotion. ‘I don’t want to look at them, Wes. Close that door, will you?’
They made their way to the second bedroom at the back of the house where they found more paintings – and something else. Wesley slipped it into an evidence bag and held it up for Gerry to see. It was a woman’s scarf, floral and bright, and as he picked it up he caught a whiff of perfume. He was sure he’d smelled that perfume before but he couldn’t remember where.
‘Better ask if it belongs to anybody at the property company,’ Gerry said before leaving Wesley to continue his study of the painting
s. The one at the top of the pile featured a youthful Linda Payne. Like the rest it was impressionistic in style and she was dressed in a gingham summer dress and a cardigan that made her look like a schoolgirl.
There were no more pictures of girls in the wardrobe near the windows. Instead there was a selection of landscapes and pictures of Tradmouth, the kind so popular with the tourist market.
As he continued going through the pile it struck him that some of the paintings were subtly different, as though somebody had made a great effort to copy Temples’ style with slight variations in the brush strokes that only a trained eye would see. Some paintings bore the initials JT in the bottom right-hand corner, but others were just signed with the letter J.
‘I think some of these might not have been painted by Temples,’ said Wesley.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘When I was in the Art and Antiques Unit at the Met I picked up a lot by watching the experts. There are subtle differences in the style. And besides, they’re only signed with one initial. Temples signed his work with both.’
Wesley was beginning to wonder whether Temples had been telling the truth and there really had been another artist at Strangefields Farm. Perhaps Jonny Sykes hadn’t been a figment of Jackson Temples’ imagination after all.
From the second diary of
Lemuel Strange, gentleman
4th April 1685
For nineteen years I have written no account of my deeds, for the business of my life and the running of Strangefields Hall on Frances’s behalf has kept me from the leisure I enjoyed in London. Even the death of our good King Charles in February and the accession of his brother, James, has had little effect on us here at Strangefields.
Frances trusts me absolutely to run her estate and, after the untimely death of her son William of the fever but two years after his father’s murder, I am now sole heir to the property which now prospers with all Reuben’s debts paid. Frances herself inherited a great fortune from her father on his death last year and Strangefields has a new wing and is a goodly house.