Dead Man's Lane

by Kate Ellis

  ‘Sorry, Gerry. Late night. I’ve got news. I think Jonathan Kilin’s parents are living in Modbury and I’d like to speak to them. Jonathan was good at art and Temples always claimed there was another artist at Strangefields Farm called Jonny Sykes. They went to the same school … ’

  ‘You think Sykes might be Kilin? Surely if they were at the same school Temples would have known his real name.’

  ‘Maybe he changed it. Or Temples didn’t know him at school – I didn’t know everyone a few years below me.’

  Gerry thought for a moment. ‘Follow it up if you must but remember we need to speak to Pauline Howe. We can return that scarf and see what she knows about the paintings at Castle View Terrace. And don’t forget we’re due to have a word with Rich Vernon and Lance Pembry this morning.’

  ‘Neil came round last night. I told you about the strange burial he found at Strangefields Farm, didn’t I?’

  ‘And I said unless we need to investigate, I don’t want to know.’

  The phone on Gerry’s desk rang and after a short conversation he looked up at Wesley with the look of a hungry man who’d just been presented with a plate of tempting food.

  ‘The patrol dragged Vernon out of bed and he’s just arrived downstairs. A car’s picking Pembry up in half an hour. Best to catch them first thing before they’ve had a chance to wake up,’ he said with a wicked grin.

  Wesley was about to leave Gerry’s office when the DCI spoke again. ‘Do you think Linda’s murder’s connected with the Harbourside Players?’

  Wesley didn’t reply. The idea of some internecine war between rivals in an amateur drama company somehow didn’t convince, although he acknowledged that the theatrical manner of Linda’s murder might appeal to Lance Pembry, a man familiar with the techniques of illusion and misdirection.

  Rich Vernon was waiting in the interview room; not the windowless one they used for serious suspects but the more comfortable version reserved for witnesses and people they invited in for a more informal chat.

  Vernon looked as though he’d dressed in a hurry, and he seemed more nervous than he’d been when they’d last met at the hotel. Wesley, however, didn’t read too much into this; police stations often had that effect on people.

  ‘We’ve had the rope used in the production examined,’ Gerry began. ‘Our experts say it’s the same type as the one Linda Payne was strangled with. In spite of her body being immersed in water our forensics people managed to find minute traces of rope fibre on her neck. It matches your rope so we’re working on the assumption that it was the murder weapon.’

  Vernon frowned. ‘That’s impossible. All the props are kept at the Arts Centre and I swear to you that rope’s never gone missing. Honestly.’

  ‘Do you handle the rope in the play?’

  ‘No. The duchess is strangled on my orders. I don’t do it myself.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the fact that your DNA was found on it?’

  Vernon sat with his mouth open for a couple of seconds. ‘I … er, don’t know. I can’t think.’ Suddenly his face lit up. ‘Yes, I remember. We were messing about and I was holding it, demonstrating how the scene should be done. Light-hearted … you know.’

  ‘A light-hearted strangling?’ said Gerry. ‘Is there such a thing?’

  ‘Lance told Ossie Phillips, the bloke who plays the executioner, off for being too timid. Ossie said he didn’t feel comfortable strangling someone because a cousin of his was strangled years ago. It freaked him out.’

  Wesley and Gerry exchanged glances. This was something new.

  ‘Do you know the cousin’s name?’

  Vernon shook his head. ‘He never talked about it. All I know is that he was a kid when it happened. Don’t suppose you ever get over something like that, do you?’

  ‘Mr Phillips never mentioned this when he gave his statement. Did the murder happen locally?’

  ‘Like I said, he never talked about it. Anyway, I took the rope and demonstrated on Linda. We didn’t think anything of it.’

  ‘Did you know Linda was related to Jackson Temples?’

  The look of shock on Vernon’s face told him the answer was no.

  ‘Who else in the cast might have known?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. All I know is that she never mentioned it to me.’

  Gerry gave Wesley a nod and he left the room, announcing his departure to the machine that was recording the proceedings at the end of the table. After running upstairs to ask one of the team to check out Vernon’s story, he returned to find the suspect looking more nervous, as though he feared he’d just incriminated himself.

  However, he stuck to his story and ten minutes later a constable brought in a message. Another member of the cast had confirmed Vernon’s story. Ossie Phillips had been agitated at the rehearsal. The stage strangling had revived bad memories.

  ‘Before you go, Mr Vernon, can you tell us whether Lance Pembry ever handled that rope?’

  ‘I suppose so. He’s the director.’

  As soon as Vernon had gone a call came through to tell them Lance Pembry had arrived in reception and five minutes later the director was sitting in the seat Vernon had recently vacated. He looked a lot more confident than the other man had done and answered their questions with apparent honesty. Yes, he’d demonstrated the strangling scene because the ‘executioner’ hadn’t approached it with enough enthusiasm at first then he’d seemed upset and he’d said something about a cousin. He remembered his ‘Ferdinand’ demonstrating how it should be done at the final rehearsal before the ‘duchess’s’ disappearance, confirming Vernon’s story. Pembry had a habit of referring to his cast by the names of their roles; perhaps it was easier for a director than remembering their real names. The ‘executioner’s’ distaste for his task had resulted in him almost losing his part. Pembry didn’t sound as though he had much sympathy with the man who’d lost his cousin in such a dreadful way.

  ‘Were Pauline Howe and Linda friends?’

  ‘Yes, I’d say so. They did a lot of talking in corners when Linda should have been thinking herself into the role.’ He glared at Gerry. ‘If you ask Pauline about it for heaven’s sake don’t upset her. She’s shaky enough on her lines as it is.’

  ‘We’ll be gentle,’ said Gerry with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘You asked my wife to confirm my alibi?’ Pembry suddenly sounded a little anxious.

  ‘We asked the two people you were drinking with too. Everybody backs up your story.’

  A smug expression appeared on Lance Pembry’s face. ‘There you are then.’

  ‘You still admit to having had an affair with the dead woman – and that she was blackmailing you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it blackmail exactly … ’

  Gerry stood up and his chair scraped loudly on the floor. ‘Thank you, Mr Pembry. You’re free to go.’

  For the first time Pembry looked uncertain, as though he hadn’t expected to be let off so lightly. But Wesley sensed they’d found out all they could from him for the time being. And they were both impatient to speak to Pauline Howe.

  From the second diary of

  Lemuel Strange, gentleman

  7th April 1685

  I made no mention of the sailor’s words to Frances or to my wife but they came to me again as I lay awake that night.

  I went down to the quay the next day and supped with my sailor at the Star, hoping to learn more of the matter. He told me he had heard tell that Bess Whitetree had spurned Reuben’s unwelcome advances when she was maidservant to Frances and that Harry, being Bess’s sweetheart, had borne his master some ill will, although he swore they were both God-fearing young people who would never steal or kill. My sailor spoke much about the enmity between Reuben and Master Treague of Neston who had made vile threats against him and vowed revenge on him for betraying his father to Parliament in the late war and causing his arrest and his sorry death in prison. I had been told of this many years ago but I had little understood the depth of the hatred Mast
er Treague had for Reuben until now. My sailor called Reuben a Puritan hypocrite but, after what I’d learned, I had no desire to defend his memory.

  Last night I made mention of the sailor’s tale to Frances, expecting her to call him a liar, but instead she wept and my wife had to comfort her. I suspect something is amiss but I know not what it is.

  47

  Cities and towns are anonymous places where you can lose yourself if you wish, hidden in plain sight amongst the crowd. Yet even though Neston was a town, it was relatively small and Danny knew it would be easy for Stag and Roberta to find him. That was why he decided to head for Stokeworthy.

  The village was surrounded by woods and farms and, according to Bert, the food the church collected for the local foodbank was stored in the village hall, along with donations for a monthly jumble sale. He’d seen the hall and he reckoned it’d be simple to get in undetected, giving him access to food and a change of clothes. The church too was left unlocked during the day and that was somewhere Stag and Roberta would never think to look for him. He also had a vague recollection that there was something called sanctuary which meant you couldn’t be arrested if you were inside a church. Besides, churches were peaceful and they made him feel safe, as though they provided a protective shield against the world and its dangers.

  He’d taken the bus from Neston to Tradmouth first thing, getting off at the pub where the lane branched off to Stokeworthy and walking the rest of the way. He had the seventy quid from the jeweller, along with what he had left from the money Bert had given him, which would keep him going for a while if he was careful. Kevin’s red leather jacket was stuffed in his rucksack because it was too recognisable and he reckoned that he could find something else to keep out the cold amongst the jumble sale stuff in the village hall. The important thing was not to be caught.

  When he reached the village he saw that Bert’s bungalow was still festooned with police tape so he hurried past and crouched behind the churchyard wall to make his plans. The police would have finished there now and he still had the key so if he was careful he could have a comfortable bed for the night and nobody would be any the wiser. He’d have to wait until dark and in the meantime the church had a chapel with big tombs that would provide perfect cover for a time, and a bell tower where nobody ever went apart from the bell-ringers.

  After checking nobody was around he headed for the church door. When he was halfway down the path between the gravestones he turned his head and saw something that made his heart lurch. A little white van was driving slowly past Bert’s bungalow, slowing down to look, so he shot into the shadow of the church porch and pressed his body against the cold stones.

  It was Stag and Roberta. And he was afraid they’d come looking for him.

  Once they’d finished with Lance Pembry Wesley and Gerry set out for Morbay together. The chief super had asked Gerry to update her on developments but Wesley suspected he was trying to avoid her because he had so little to report. They were still chasing shadows and Wesley was starting to despair.

  They’d asked someone to find out about the death of Ossie Phillips’ cousin. First though they needed to speak to Pauline Howe. However, when they reached the offices of Bayside Properties they were in for more frustration because Pauline had phoned in sick that morning. Once again Wesley tried the number that Horrocks had provided and once again there was no answer.

  ‘We’ll just have to surprise her. Hope she hasn’t got anything catching,’ said Gerry as they walked to her address.

  In Wesley’s opinion Pauline’s sickness was a little too convenient and he said as much to Gerry, who nodded in agreement.

  Pauline Howe lived in a flat on the first floor of a large white stucco villa, a relic of Morbay’s glory days as the jewel of the English Riviera when discerning travellers flocked there to enjoy sun, sea and sand at a time when abroad was reserved for the super-rich. The property looked as though it had been recently modernised and there was a neat row of bells next to the glossy front door. Wesley pressed the one marked ‘Howe’ and after a few seconds a disembodied voice asked who was calling. There was a long gap before they heard the buzz that meant the door lock was released and Wesley wondered whether she was making herself decent to receive them or just playing for time.

  She was fully dressed when they arrived at her flat and to the untrained eye she displayed no sign of illness. However, her manner was cautious, as though she feared saying something indiscreet.

  ‘We’ve been trying to contact you, Ms Howe,’ said Wesley.

  ‘I don’t answer my phone if I don’t recognise the number.’ She sniffed. ‘Too many nuisance calls.’

  ‘Your boss, Mr Horrocks, said you weren’t well.’

  ‘Just a headache,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve taken some painkillers and I’m feeling better now.’

  She was twisting a strand of hair in her fingers, a sign that she was nervous about something. Wesley produced the scarf he’d found at Castle View Terrace.

  ‘Is this yours?’

  She hesitated for a moment as though she was considering denying it. ‘Er, yes. Where did you find it?’

  Wesley handed her the scarf but he didn’t answer the question.

  ‘We’d like to talk to you about Linda if that’s all right.’

  ‘I didn’t really know her that well. I only saw her at rehearsals.’

  Wesley was used to people lying to him and Pauline wasn’t good at it … which didn’t bode well for Lance Pembry’s production.

  ‘Have you lived in the area long?’

  ‘No. I came here from up north about eighteen months ago. I wanted to live near the sea.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’ She sounded defensive.

  ‘You’re not … in a relationship?’

  ‘No.’ There was a finality about the reply. Don’t enquire any further.

  ‘How long have you worked for Mr Horrocks?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘About eight months. I’m on the lookout for something better if you want the truth.’

  ‘What about before then?’

  ‘I temped for a while. I really don’t see what that has to do with Linda’s murder.’ She was beginning to look flustered and Wesley watched her face carefully.

  ‘What made you join the Harbourside Players?’ he asked. He kept the question light, as if they were having a pleasant conversation.

  His tactic seemed to work because she seemed to relax a little. ‘It’s the first time I’ve done any acting since school but I’ve always been interested. I used to have a job in a theatre box office.’

  ‘Whereabouts was that?’

  ‘Manchester … where I used to live.’

  ‘You lived there for a long time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t like it enough to stay?’

  ‘I needed a change of scene.’

  ‘You haven’t got a northern accent,’ said Gerry accusingly as though he suspected her of letting the side down.

  She shook her head but offered no explanation.

  ‘How do feel about taking on Linda’s role in the play?’ said Wesley. ‘I imagine it’s quite a challenge.’

  ‘I’m still shaky with my lines.’ She pointed to the well-thumbed copy of the script lying on the glass coffee table in front of her.

  ‘Lance Pembry wouldn’t have entrusted you with the part if he didn’t think you could do it.’

  This raised a smile, the first one Wesley had seen.

  ‘Lance was the reason I went for the audition. I knew his reputation as a director and I couldn’t believe he’d bestow his talents on an amateur company like that. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I was so lucky to get the part.’

  ‘Lucky that Linda died?’

  Wesley shot Gerry a look. He was making progress and the last thing he needed was for his boss’s bluntness to set things back.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean … I was lucky to get any part and to be made understudy. I nev
er dreamed I’d be playing the duchess. Honestly.’

  ‘Did you know Linda Payne was once in a relationship with Lance Pembry?’

  ‘I suspected there was history between them, yes.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why she got the part?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She fell silent but Wesley waited, sure she had more to add. Eventually his patience was rewarded.

  ‘To tell the truth she really wasn’t that good. Some of the others used to get exasperated with her. And she used to be quite high-handed with people who didn’t have the star parts.’

  This was a very different picture of Linda Payne to the one they’d heard previously but people were often reluctant to admit that the recently dead were anything other than saints.

  ‘You included?’

  She shrugged. ‘I always got on fine with her.’

  ‘Lance Pembry said Linda supplied the rope that’s used in the production. The one that’s used to strangle the duchess and Cariola.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. She said she’d found it in her shop. The previous owner was a keen sailor and it was amongst some old stuff that was left in the back. She used some of it for a display and brought some in for the production.’

  Wesley remembered seeing the nautical display in Linda’s shop but he hadn’t linked it to her murder until now. It looked as though she might have provided the means for her own death.

  ‘Have you ever visited six Castle View Terrace in Tradmouth?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes. It’s one of the properties we deal with.’

  ‘That’s where we found your scarf. When were you last there?’

  Pauline looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘The address is being used to store pictures and there’s a website linking it to somewhere called the Jackles Gallery – does that name ring any bells?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘We had a look round the premises and found a number of pictures there painted by a man called Jackson Temples. I’m sure the name must be familiar to you. He murdered three women back in the nineteen nineties at Strangefields Farm just outside Tradmouth. The case was notorious at the time.’