by Kate Ellis
Pauline lowered her eyes and said nothing.
‘How did the pictures come to be there?’
‘I don’t know.’
It was clear they weren’t getting anywhere. Wesley glanced at Gerry and stood up. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’
It was a request he’d never known anybody refuse. When he left the room he closed the door behind him; this was his opportunity to find out more about Pauline Howe and instead of making straight for the bathroom he tried the door opposite and found himself in a bedroom.
He’d been curious about her private life since she’d given such evasive responses to his questions about her relationships and he began to examine a group of framed photographs on a chest of drawers in the corner. Most were of Pauline in recent times, one posed in front of the entrance to the Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester. But there was one of a group of laughing girls and at first he couldn’t make out whether Pauline was among them. Then suddenly he experienced a jolt of realisation. The girl with the short hair was Pauline all right and he recognised one of the girls with her too: Hayley Rummage, the woman who was determined to establish Jackson Temples’ innocence, had her arm around Pauline’s shoulder – girls on a good night out.
‘You know Hayley Rummage?’ he asked when he returned to the living room.
‘You’ve been in my bedroom.’
‘I’m sorry. But this is a murder inquiry.’
Pauline sighed. ‘OK, I met Hayley when I was up in Manchester.’
‘You know about her campaign – Jackson Temples?’
Pauline nodded. ‘That’s the kind of thing she’s always been involved in – injustices.’
‘Are you involved?’
When she didn’t reply Wesley asked his next question. ‘You knew that Linda was related to Jackson Temples, didn’t you?’
She gave a reluctant nod. ‘I mentioned Hayley’s campaign to Linda and that’s when she confided in me. Up till then she’d kept it very quiet for obvious reasons.’
‘You agreed to store the pictures for her.’
‘She knew I worked for a property company and she said she’d got hold of some paintings done by her brother. She wanted to sell them and a friend was helping her. There was no room to keep them in her cottage so she paid me to store them. The friend had set up a website and I told her the house was empty and it would be OK to keep them there for a while. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it before, but I wasn’t sure if it would get me into trouble.’
‘Does this friend of Linda’s have a name?’
‘Jonny. Jonny Sykes. She said some of the pictures were his.’
48
Danny continued to watch from the shelter of the church porch. If he didn’t keep an eye on Stag and Roberta they might find him and that was the last thing he wanted.
They drove slowly past Bert’s and brought their van to a halt outside another bungalow eight doors away but, as Bert had only spoken about his immediate neighbours, Danny didn’t know who lived there. He saw Roberta open the passenger door while Stag stayed in the van. She looked around, as though she was making sure nobody was about, straightened her back and marched purposefully to the bungalow’s front door. She was carrying a large tote bag and she looked smarter than usual in her long skirt and jacket, as if she’d dressed up for the occasion. He thought he’d seen her in those clothes before, calling on Bert a few days before his death. Bert had said his visitor had been a lady from Social Services so Danny concluded that he’d made a mistake and no more was said about it.
But this time he was sure and he watched Roberta knock on the door with a confidence he hadn’t expected, as if she had every right to be there. When the door opened he was surprised when she was invited in immediately like a welcome guest.
Now he had to decide what he was going to do about it.
One thing was certain: Linda Payne was in no position to explain the nature of her relationship with the mysterious Jonny Sykes. There was no record of his existence and he seemed as elusive as the ghosts who reputedly haunted Strangefields Farm. And yet it seemed Jackson Temples hadn’t been lying; Jonny Sykes existed and Wesley’s suspicion that a good proportion of the paintings at Castle View had been the work of another artist influenced by Temples’ style had been proved right.
Wesley tapped the keys on his computer and brought up an email that had arrived half an hour ago; something he’d been meaning to look at but hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do. He’d asked an officer at Morbay Police Station to photograph the Jackson Temples paintings they had stored in their basement and once he’d scrolled through the attachment he called Gerry over. ‘I’m beginning to think we should have asked to see these earlier.’
By the time he’d finished speaking Trish had joined Gerry and was peering at the screen. As he scrolled down he heard Trish gasp.
‘The victims are here – Nerys Harred, Carrie Bullen and Jacky Burns,’ she said with disgust. ‘All trussed up like Christmas turkeys. Sick.’
Wesley couldn’t help agreeing with her. In these particular paintings the girls were bound hand and foot with ropes around their necks, arranged in a hangman’s noose, and their heads were bent back in a posture of submission – or ecstasy. These girls weren’t models as Jane Webster and her friends had been – they were victims.
‘There are none of Gemma Pollinger.’
‘She was the last victim. Maybe things escalated and he went even further with her so he decided to destroy the evidence. Why did he paint these particular girls like this and not the others?’
‘Maybe they were the only ones willing to go along with it,’ said Trish matter-of-factly. She fell silent for a few seconds and studied the pictures. ‘Have you noticed the victims are all exceptionally beautiful and the same physical type? Long dark hair and heart-shaped faces. Maybe he had a thing about destroying beauty.’
Wesley nodded. What she said made sense.
‘There are a few nudes too – nothing too alarming,’ he said, scrolling down through the images. Then he stopped. ‘This is Linda.’
The three of them stared at the screen. It was definitely a young Linda Payne but this time she was naked, posed like the Rokeby Venus on a chaise longue, gazing at her reflection in a mirror. The effect was erotic in a tasteful way.
‘This isn’t by Temples,’ said Wesley. ‘It’s only signed with a J. This is by Jonny Sykes.’
‘I think you could be right, sir,’ said Trish as though he’d just performed a spectacular conjuring trick.
‘If Jonny painted Linda like that what’s the betting they were close. And if she was telling Pauline the truth, it means he’s still around and they were in contact.’ He thought for a moment. ‘What if Jonny was afraid Linda would tell someone he hadn’t been a figment of her brother’s imagination? She’d told Pauline about him after all.’
‘But Pauline can’t have told Hayley or she would have used it as ammunition to get the case reopened.’
‘Pauline probably didn’t realise the significance of the name.’
The phone on Wesley’s desk rang and he answered it. ‘Call for you, sir,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Someone by the name of Danny Brice and he says it’s urgent. He thinks there’s going to be a murder.’
Grace had told Joe Hamer she had urgent business in London so she could spend a couple of days with Dale on his boat and, as there had been no frantic phone calls, either from Hamer or her London office, she presumed she’d got away with her minor deception.
A few months ago she would never have done anything so reckless – something that might jeopardise the reputation of the Compton Wynyard Partnership – but meeting Dale Keyes again had made her forget everything outside the warm, intimate world of their newly rekindled relationship. She regretted that she’d ever mentioned his name to Wesley. If the police had caught up with him it could have ruined everything, but she wasn’t to know at the time.
She knew her moment of irresponsibility had to co
me to an end and she should face the inevitable and get back to work. Besides, Dale hadn’t returned to the boat the previous night as he’d promised and all sorts of possibilities had started to run through her mind, some humiliating, some worrying.
Eventually worry triumphed as she recalled the words he’d said before they parted. ‘I’m going to get back what’s mine but it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be back before you know it.’
She tried Dale’s number and again there was no answer. Then she made a decision.
Wesley Peterson would know what to do in the case of a missing person. However, when she called him all she heard was his voicemail message.
From the second diary of
Lemuel Strange, gentleman
10th April 1685
I found my sailor once more in the Star where he had taken much drink with his fellows. I demanded of him the name of the tavern where he had seen my cousin alive for an idea had started to form in my mind, a thing so terrible I scarcely liked to acknowledge it.
After I was satisfied that all was well at Strangefields I resolved to ride to Plymouth on the morrow. But that night something happened to prevent it.
I retired to bed and sank into a fitful sleep. Then in the early hours I was roused by the dogs barking. Hearing sounds from Frances’s room I rose and lit a candle, fearing robbers had come, but when I reached her door I heard lowered voices. In all my years at Strangefields I had never once suspected Frances of entertaining a lover and yet there was a man in her chamber in the depths of the night.
When I opened the door a strange scene greeted me. A man very like my cousin Reuben, though much aged, stood before me and for a moment I thought I must be mistaken. Then I suddenly saw the truth. Reuben had not died as everyone had thought. He had fled the wrath of his enemy, Treague, who would surely have killed him, and left the town to believe him murdered by his servants.
I guessed from the terror on Frances’s face that she had not been privy to this deception and when Reuben saw me he stepped back in shock. It was then I saw he had a pistol. And it was pointing at my chest.
49
Wesley had asked DC Rob Carter to find out all he could about Ossie Phillips’ cousin, the one he claimed had been strangled. Eventually he came up with an answer and it wasn’t one Wesley had expected. As soon as Rob found out that Ossie’s mother’s maiden name had been Burns, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Ossie Phillips was the cousin of Jacky Burns. This discovery was sufficient reason for Wesley to ask for him to be brought in for questioning.
As Ossie worked aboard the passenger ferry, he wasn’t hard to find and an hour later Wesley and Gerry were sitting opposite him in the interview room.
Ossie was being interviewed under caution but he’d refused the services of a solicitor. According to him, he didn’t need one.
‘Jacky Burns was your cousin,’ Wesley began. As soon as he said the victim’s name, Ossie turned his face away.
‘Yes. But I don’t like to talk about her,’ Ossie muttered, his voice cracking as though he was on the verge of tears. ‘It upsets me.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve got no choice,’ said Wesley. He glanced at Gerry, who was staring at the man as though he was watching for a mistake, a slip-up in the act.
Ossie took a deep breath. ‘Me and Jacky used to be close … until she started going round with that … artist.’ He almost spat out the word. ‘I told her he was bad news but she was flattered.’ He buried his head in his hands and Wesley waited patiently for him to continue. After half a minute he looked up and Wesley saw his eyes were wet with unshed tears. ‘When Lance made me pretend to strangle Linda it brought it all back – how they said Jacky died. I just couldn’t do it.’
‘You’ve still got the part, haven’t you?’
‘After that first time I got over it. Told myself it wasn’t real. It was just a play.’
‘Did you know Linda Payne was Jackson Temples’ half-sister?’
Ossie’s mouth fell open and a thin trail of dribble trickled from the corner. He wiped it away with his sleeve and shook his head vigorously. ‘No. I’d no idea. She never mentioned it and I don’t blame her. That man was evil and even if I had known about Linda I wouldn’t have blamed her for what he did. Why would I?’
‘You were obviously fond of Jacky?’
He nodded. ‘She was a lovely kid – until she got in with Temples. Really beautiful she was – like an angel.’ He looked Wesley in the eye. ‘But I never harmed Linda, I swear on my mother’s life. I could never kill anybody. Honest.’
‘You said you went straight home after the rehearsal, which means you haven’t got an alibi for the time of Linda’s murder.’
‘I can’t help that. My partner was away visiting her mum.’
After a few more questions Wesley ended the interview and told Ossie he could go, but to make sure they knew where to find him.
‘What do you think?’ he asked as he and Gerry climbed the stairs to the CID office.
‘I believed him,’ said Gerry.
‘Me too.’
‘Although if he found out about Linda’s true identity somehow – maybe from Pauline – he might have just lost control and … ’
Wesley shook his head. ‘No, Gerry. I don’t think Linda’s death was a spur-of-the-moment thing. It was well planned.’
‘But we’ve got to remember that Ossie’s in the Harbourside Players – he’s used to putting on an act. He has to be on our suspect list.’
Wesley couldn’t argue with that.
The interview with Ossie Phillips wasn’t the only thing on his mind though. He kept thinking of Danny Brice’s call. The lad had been on the run since their encounter at the jeweller’s so contacting the police seemed an odd thing for him to do, and when he’d asked Wesley to meet him at Stokeworthy church he’d sounded frightened.
He told Gerry he needed to see what Danny had to say because there was a chance he might have information about the murder of Bert Cummings. He didn’t intend to go to the meeting alone, but as Gerry had things to do he decided to take Rachel with him. He trusted her judgement.
They borrowed a pool car to drive the three miles to Stokeworthy and when he reached the village he parked near the church gate, thinking how peaceful the place was. A quintessentially English village with a church, pub and village hall; hardly the sort of place most people associated with murder – apart from in the pages of the cosier sort of crime novel.
They walked up the church path and when he pushed at the heavy wooden door it opened with a creak that announced his arrival like a fanfare. Wesley shut the door behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before making his way slowly down the aisle with Rachel by his side. There was no sign of Danny Brice and he was starting to think the call might have been a trick, maybe to throw them off the scent. Then when he reached the handsome painted rood screen he saw a movement in the side chapel to his right, a figure emerging from behind a grand table tomb topped by an effigy of a knight. He recognised Danny Brice at once and raised his hand in a gesture of reassurance.
‘Danny. You wanted to talk. Maybe it’d be best if we went back to the station.’
Danny walked slowly towards him, his dog, Barney, trotting obediently to heel. He looked remarkably meek for a wanted man, not what Wesley had been expecting at all.
‘Thanks for coming.’
Wesley had never been thanked by a suspect before but he hid his surprise and gave Danny a small smile of acknowledgement. ‘I want to tell you where I got that stuff from.’
Wesley and Rachel looked at each other. The man was clearly in a confessional mood and he felt reluctant to break the spell by hauling him back to the interview room. That could come later.
‘Go on.’
‘It was under a floorboard at my squat. There’s this couple who live there – Stag and Roberta – and it was in their room.’ He looked round as though he was afraid of being overheard. ‘I’ve just seen her going into a house roun
d the corner all dressed up with one of those things round her neck … like she was official.’
‘A lanyard?’
Danny nodded.
‘Where does she work?’
‘She doesn’t. Neither of them do. That’s why I thought it was odd.’
Wesley had been puzzled by Danny’s words but slowly the jigsaw was starting to fit together. Some of the elderly burglary victims had said they’d been visited by a lady from the council a week or so before their valuables were stolen but nobody had connected these visits with the burglaries – and certainly not to Bert Cummings’ murder. Now Wesley couldn’t wait to follow it up.
‘A couple of days before he died Bert said a lady from Social Services had come to see him. Said she’d asked all sorts of questions about his security. I saw Roberta near his house around that time. Do you think it could have been her pretending to be from the council?’
‘Do they know the jewellery’s gone?’
‘Don’t know. I wasn’t going to take the risk so I’ve moved out.’
‘We’ve been looking for you. Where have you been?’
Danny shuffled his feet. ‘Here and there. I never harmed Bert. I wouldn’t.’ He sounded desperate to be believed. ‘I … I knew Kevin, his grandson,’ Danny continued. ‘We were … together. When I turned up at Bert’s the first time he thought I was Kevin and I went along with it ’cause I didn’t want to upset him.’ He glanced towards the altar nearby. ‘As God’s my witness, I just found him like that and called your lot. Honest.’
Wesley’s instincts told him that Danny was telling the truth – and that his fear was genuine.
‘Do you think Stag and Roberta killed Bert? If he caught them stealing … ’
When Wesley didn’t answer the question, Danny spoke again. ‘And there’s something else. It’s probably nothing.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
‘Something odd happened when I took Bert on the ferry across the river the week before he died. He didn’t get out much and he wanted to do it so I borrowed Stag’s van and took him into Tradmouth. He was on the ferry, all happy like, when he suddenly looked like he’d seen a ghost. I asked him what was wrong and he said it was nothing but I could tell something had upset him ’cause he wanted to stay on when we got to Queenswear and go straight back to Tradmouth. I think he saw something on that ferry – or somebody.’ The words came out in a rush, as though he’d been brooding on the incident during his time as a fugitive.