by Kate Ellis
‘Drowned?’
‘He appears to have been stabbed a number of times … similar to that elderly man in Stokeworthy a few days ago. Grace said she’d come to the mortuary to identify him but she hasn’t turned up and I’m getting worried. Is there anything she said to you – anything at all?’
‘I’m thinking … I’m thinking.’ She sounded exasperated with herself, as though there was something she was trying to recall; something she’d ignored at the time which might prove important now. ‘I’m sorry, there isn’t. Is there any sign of her car?’
‘It’s not in the car park at the hotel. I’ve asked Traffic to go through their number plate recognition system but if she’s gone off the main routes … ’
‘Let me know when she turns up, won’t you?’
He promised but with each minute that passed he was feeling more and more uneasy. He kept telling himself there was no evidence that Grace was in danger even though it was a possibility he knew he had to consider.
He’d just rung off when Rachel walked into the CID office and he was surprised to see that she wasn’t alone. Danny Brice was with her, looking sheepish amongst so many police officers. She came over to Wesley’s desk, Danny hanging back as though he longed to be somewhere else.
‘You said you wanted Danny to look at some photographs. I thought it’d be better to bring him up here.’
Wesley gave Danny an encouraging smile. ‘They’re on that board over there,’ he said, pointing to the large whiteboard bearing pictures of all the people who’d featured in the investigation so far. ‘Do you recognise anyone? Perhaps someone you’ve seen near Bert’s house – or on the ferry.’
The actual crime-scene pictures were on another board nearby. Wesley wished he’d had time to cover them up but Danny gave them a swift glance before obeying Wesley’s instructions.
He studied the photographs for a while before turning to speak to Wesley. ‘Yeah. I recognise that one.’ When he pointed to one of the photographs Wesley hid his surprise.
From the second diary of
Lemuel Strange, gentleman
10th April 1685
My cousin held the pistol steady.
‘What do you want?’ I asked. ‘Why have you returned?’
‘I want what is mine. My wife and son.’
‘Your son is dead.’ I heard Frances utter these words with no hint of the grief I knew she felt.
‘I know that now. Terrible news to greet a man on his return to the land of the living.’
‘Why did you disappear leaving all to think you dead?’
He grabbed Frances roughly by the arm. ‘I saw a chance to flee my debts and an enemy who had sworn to kill me. It was a simple matter to change my name and take a ship to Holland where I have prospered as I never did here in Devonshire. I returned to do business with a merchant in Plymouth but when I heard of my wife’s inheritance … ’
‘You have no right to that,’ I said, angry on Frances’s behalf. ‘You abandoned her to your creditors and allowed her to think you dead. If I hadn’t come to her aid … ’
I heard a sound behind me and turned to see my wife, standing open-mouthed. I shouted to her to fetch John and as she ran down the staircase in her nightgown Reuben fired his pistol and Frances screamed loud enough to waken the dead. By God’s good mercy his shot missed and I lunged forward to grapple him to the floor. The pistol fell from his hand but he fought fiercely, although his age gave me the advantage. When John arrived in the chamber Reuben realised he was outnumbered and exhaustion overcame him. John pinned his arms behind his back but, being a man of few words, he expressed no amazement at his late master’s strange resurrection. Rather he looked to me for instruction.
52
‘You would have seen him on the ferry,’ Wesley said. ‘He works aboard. His name’s Ossie Phillips.’
His mind was racing. Ossie Phillips’ DNA was found on the rope which might have killed Linda Payne. Now he was beginning to wonder whether Bert Cummings had been afraid of him for some reason.
However, Danny Brice was soon to dispel his suspicions. ‘Yeah. Bert said hello to him and asked him how he was doing. He used to teach him at Neston High School, he said.’
‘So he wasn’t the person Bert seemed worried about?’
‘Oh no. He was pleased to see him. But then he saw someone else. Don’t know who but he was rattled all right.’
Wesley had an idea. ‘Could the person he saw be someone else he used to teach?’
Danny shrugged. ‘If he was, the man on the ferry didn’t recognise him.’
‘Then if he wasn’t at Neston High then he might have been at the other school where Bert taught – Fulton Grange.’
Wesley knew he was taking a gamble. With Grace missing he knew he should be concentrating on finding her but what he wanted to do wouldn’t take long. He thanked Danny and shot into Gerry’s office. When he told Gerry what he was planning the DCI looked crestfallen. He relished any opportunity to get out on the river but the amount of paperwork in front of him meant he was trapped behind his desk for the time being.
As Wesley was on his way out of the office he caught sight of the photographs on the noticeboard. With everything that had happened, he’d almost forgotten about Linda’s assistant, Jen Barrow. She’d told Rachel she was thinking of going away for a while because she was so upset by Linda’s murder and, according to Rachel, she hadn’t been answering her phone. But what if she hadn’t gone away? What if something had prevented her and she’d met the same fate as her employer?
‘Anyone tried to contact Jen Barrow recently?’
Gerry looked up. ‘Rach has but she’s had no luck.’
‘I’m wondering whether she knows more than she admitted about Linda’s death and she’s left because she’s frightened the killer would come after her? The two women worked together. They must have talked – passed the time of day. Maybe Linda told her something and she didn’t think it was important enough to mention it when we were questioning her but later she realised its significance.’
‘If that’s the case she might have been right to get out of the area. I only wish she’d kept us informed.’
‘Unless … unless the killer’s already caught up with her.’
‘I know, Wes. That’s worrying me too. I keep coming back to Linda’s link with Jackson Temples. I don’t think we can ignore the possibility that Ossie Phillips decided to take revenge on Temples’ half-sister for the murder of his cousin. He’s admitted that he and Jacky Burns were close.’
Wesley took a deep breath. What he was about to say might sound like heresy to Gerry, whose opinions were coloured by his involvement in the original case, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself. ‘What if Temples didn’t do it? What if he was innocent?’
He saw Gerry frown with disbelief and shake his head. ‘He was guilty as hell, Wes. All the evidence pointed to it. The jury only took an hour to reach their verdict.’
Wesley didn’t bother to reply. Instead he joined Danny at the office entrance.
‘Someone’s phoned the hostel. They’ve got a place. As long as we know where to find you you’ll be released on bail,’ said Wesley. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘I’m not in danger, am I?’
Wesley felt he couldn’t tell a lie. If the killer thought Danny had seen him or her at Bert Cummings’ bungalow or on the ferry, he might be a target. ‘Call me if you’re worried about anything … anything at all,’ he said as he handed Danny his card. ‘You’ve got your phone?’
When they reached the police station entrance they went their separate ways and Wesley stood watching until Danny disappeared round the corner, feeling somehow responsible for him. Stag and Roberta were in custody but he wasn’t sure whether Danny might be facing a threat from another source.
He walked the short distance to the passenger ferry landing stage and when it docked he waited until the passengers had disembarked before stepping aboard. Unlike Gerry, he wasn’t good on boa
ts but he breathed in the diesel-scented river air, telling himself the nausea he felt was all in the mind. When he felt less queasy he made his way round the deck, searching for Ossie Phillips. This would be an informal chat. He could always arrange for him to be brought to the station later if necessary.
Wesley found him collecting fares down below and, with his cheerful banter to his passengers, it was difficult to imagine him being cast as the ‘executioner’ in Lance Pembry’s production.
‘Hello, Inspector,’ he said warily. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘If I could have a word.’ Ossie looked worried but Wesley was quick to reassure him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘I’ll have to finish this first. Give me a minute,’ said Phillips with the confidence of an innocent man.
When Wesley offered his fare Ossie waved it away. ‘Police, fire, ambulance and the lifeboat crew get it on the house.’
Once Ossie had completed his task he came back. ‘Now what did you want to ask me? Is it about Linda? ’Cause I’ve already told you everything I know.’
‘It’s not about Linda this time. Do you remember seeing this man on the ferry a couple of weeks ago?’ He handed him Bert Cummings’ photograph. ‘He was with a young man.’
Ossie’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s Mr Cummings. I was in his class at Neston High – used to like the old boy. Right upset I was when I heard about him.’
Wesley was on the point of asking him whether he remembered Della but he thought better of it.
‘Mr Cummings was strict but you could talk to him; not like some,’ Ossie continued. ‘He said the lad was his grandson. It was nice they seemed so close.’
Wesley didn’t feel inclined to enlighten him. ‘The young man told us Bert might have recognised someone while he was on board. He said he seemed upset and wanted to go straight back to Tradmouth.’
Ossie sat there on the wooden bench, frowning in concentration. ‘I remember I said hello, asked him how he was and all that, but I didn’t have time to hang around. When I saw him again I realised he hadn’t got off but there were a lot of passengers on that day so I was too busy to talk to him again. But … ’
Wesley had a feeling that he was about to learn something important. He held his breath and waited.
‘I could be wrong,’ Ossie said. ‘But I think I saw Mr Cummings speaking to someone. The grandson had gone to the toilet over there.’ He pointed in the vague direction of a toilet sign at the other end of the cabin. ‘And Mr Cummings went up to this person and said something. I thought he looked a bit rattled and by the time the grandson came back the person had gone up on deck. She got off at Queenswear.’
‘It was a woman?’
Ossie considered the question for a few moments. ‘I’m saying “her” but it could have been a “him”. It was raining and they had their hood up so I couldn’t see their hair or face, but from the way they walked … ’
‘So when this person left the ferry Bert Cummings stayed on?’
‘That’s right. The grandson stood up to get off but Mr Cummings pulled at his sleeve and he sat down again. If you ask me, Mr Cummings looked scared.’
‘Can you describe this person?’
‘Tallish, wearing jeans and a navy-blue waterproof jacket with the hood up; just ordinary. And when I collected their fare she – or he – had their head bowed so I didn’t see the face.’
‘How old?’
‘Couldn’t really tell. Sorry.’
Wesley took four photographs out of his pocket: Linda Payne, Pauline Howe, Jen Barrow and Roberta. ‘Could any of these be the person Bert spoke to?’
Ossie studied them closely. ‘It definitely wasn’t Linda or Pauline ’cause I know them from the Harbourside Players. As for the other two I can’t tell. Like I said, I didn’t really get a look at their face – and I can’t put my hand on my heart and say it wasn’t a him. Sorry.’
Wesley tried to hide his disappointment. ‘Would you recognise this person if you saw them again?’
Ossie shook his head again. ‘Sorry.’
His fellow passengers were standing up, ready to disembark, but Wesley had no business in Queenswear so he didn’t move while Ossie rushed up on deck to help with the docking.
He gazed out of the window at the water. The sun had emerged from behind the clouds, making the surface of the river sparkle with diamonds of light. When his phone began to ring the noise made him jump. It was Neil and he felt a sudden rush of optimism. If Grace had turned up at Strangefields Farm, he might have seen her.
‘Read that diary yet?’ was Neil’s first question.
‘Haven’t had time to finish it yet. Sorry. There’s been another murder.’
‘Who?’
Wesley was about to tell him but he stopped himself. In Grace’s absence, the dead man hadn’t been formally identified yet and when he was, there would be relatives to inform as soon as they could be found. ‘Not sure yet. Is this just a social call?’
‘We’ve just found a third skeleton. Another deviant burial the same as the others. Looks like another male – probably older this time.’ There was a short silence before Neil carried on talking. ‘You know that other diary I gave you a copy of?’
‘What about it?’ The ferry had set off again and the motion brought on another bout of queasiness.
‘It explains the first two bodies – the young man and woman – but there’s no reference to an older man at all. You said the one you’ve got at your police station might have been written by the same person?’
‘It’s possible. Sorry, Neil, things are busy here but I’ve asked someone to make a copy of it and I’ll try to take a look when I’ve got a minute.’ Much as Wesley would have liked to discuss Neil’s find, he had more pressing matters to think about. ‘You haven’t seen Grace Compton up there recently, have you? The architect.’
‘Is that what she calls herself? Have you seen the nasty little boxes she’s designed for the holidaymakers? They’re going to cost a bomb. And that reception building’s a monstrosity—’
‘Have you seen her?’ Wesley interrupted.
‘Someone said they saw her car on the lane earlier.’
‘What time?’
‘Sometime this morning, I think.’
‘Sure it was her car?’
‘I wasn’t paying much attention so I might have got it wrong. Or it might have been yesterday. Sorry. Mind on other things.’
Neil could be oblivious to the world outside archaeology during an exciting dig but, even so, Wesley found his vagueness frustrating. ‘Was Grace alone? Or with someone else?’
‘No idea.’
‘Who saw her?’
‘Can’t remember but I can ask around if you like. Are you coming to see our new skeleton? We’re about to lift it so if you want to see it in situ you’ll have to get a move on.’
Wesley said he hadn’t time and ended the call, wishing Neil had been more specific about the sighting of Grace.
When the ferry docked in Tradmouth he said goodbye to Ossie Phillips, gave him his card and told him to get in touch if he remembered any more. As he disembarked he made a decision. It would do no harm to call in at Strangefields Farm on his way to Modbury to see Jonathan Kilin’s parents. It would make Neil happy if he could show off his thrilling new find and while he was there he could ask if anybody else had seen Grace.
When Grace opened her eyes she could see sunlight between the slats of the boarded-up window. Her head throbbed as if a hundred tiny builders were hard at work in her brain with drills and hammers so she closed them again.
She’d been on her way to keep her appointment with Wesley when she’d received the text from Dale. Sorry. Got held up. Meet me. Urgent. He’d signed off with a kiss, which was just like him. He’d always been a charmer; that was why he’d managed to get away with so much. She’d felt a wave of relief. After speaking to Wesley she’d been certain he was dead – that she’d lost him a second time – and the text had made her giddy with joy.
He’d instructed her to drive to the little derelict cottage near the T-junction on Dead Man’s Lane and to leave her car behind the building, well concealed behind overgrown bushes and out of sight of the road. She knew the cottage because Joe Hamer had shown an interest in acquiring it but hadn’t been able to contact the owners – although she wasn’t sure whether she’d believed him. There were a lot of things about Hamer she wasn’t inclined to enquire into too closely.
As she’d parked she’d heard the archaeologists’ voices carrying over the light breeze. But they’d been hidden behind the high Devon hedge on the other side of the lane so they’d been oblivious to her arrival, which had suited her fine. As far as Hamer knew she was in London and the subterfuge had made her feel like a naughty schoolgirl bunking off lessons.
When she’d tried the cottage door she’d wondered why the place hadn’t been bought up and renovated years ago, maybe as a second home. Perhaps the address, Dead Man’s Lane, had put off potential purchasers.
She’d also wondered why Dale had chosen to meet in such a place. Who was he hiding from and why? She’d checked the ground floor and found it empty but with signs of recent habitation: used plastic coffee cups and food wrappers. Then she’d climbed the half-rotten stairs, feeling a thrill of excitement as she anticipated the reunion. A door had been standing ajar and when she’d pushed it open she’d found herself in a small upstairs room with a boarded-up window and daylight trickling through a hole in the ceiling, open to the sky because half the roof slates were missing.
She could hear the soft cooing of pigeons in the rafters and in the dim light she could see that the room was roughly furnished with an old armchair and a double air bed. Her phone had told her she had another text and as she’d read it she smiled. Just popped out. Left wine. Suggest you make a start while you’re waiting. Got big surprise. Won’t be long.
As soon as her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she’d spotted the bottle of wine and a pair of wine glasses standing on a dusty bamboo table in the corner of the room. As instructed she’d opened the screw top and poured herself a drink before settling down in the armchair to wait. That was the last thing she remembered before she’d woken up with a thumping headache and a feeling that her limbs didn’t belong to her.