The Burial Circle

Book 24: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Police Procedurals

Synopsis

The discovery of a human skeleton and a red rucksack amongst the roots of a fallen tree jolts memories for DI Wesley Peterson: a hitch-hiker who went missing in 2008, and was never found. Meanwhile, in the small Devon village of Petherham, a famous TV psychic is the main attraction at a supernatural weekend. But when the psychic dies in suspicious circumstances Wesley discovers a connection between the dead man and the vanished hitch-hiker. But was he responsible for her murder? As Wesley digs deeper into the case, it seems that the dark whisperings of a Burial Circle in the village might not be merely legend after all . . .

Release date: February 6, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Twelve years later

The Reverend Mark Fitzgerald stepped into the gloom of the church and shut the heavy oak door behind him. The place smelled of polish and old books. A comforting smell, unchanged over the years.

He’d always believed that the building should be kept open for members of the community to visit any time they felt the need, even though his wife, Maritia, wasn’t happy with the idea of him being alone and vulnerable in there. He told her that she took far too much notice of her brother, who was a detective inspector with the local police. Wesley Peterson was always advising them to take sensible precautions against intruders, because rural crime was on the increase. Mark knew his brother-in-law was probably right, and yet he still preferred to rely on the defence of prayer.

The first Advent candle had been lit the previous Sunday, so there was a lot to do. Soon the Christmas tree would be erected to be decorated by the Sunday school children as it was every year; a comforting ritual of joy and light, a world away from Wesley’s crime figures and tales of senseless violence.

Mark hurried into the vestry to check the decorations were ready for their annual outing. They were stored in a huge oak cupboard crammed with the detritus of the past hundred years – old hymn books, tattered Bibles and rusty biscuit tins, the contents of which were a mystery to him – and as he opened the cupboard door, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

The vestry door was opening. Slowly.

‘Hello. Can I help you?’

He could see a figure in the half-open doorway, little more than a black outline against the ray of bright winter sunlight pouring through the tall stained-glass window behind. As he shielded his eyes, he saw that the newcomer was wearing a dark padded coat with the hood raised, and a grey woollen scarf concealed the bottom half of his face.

‘Hi. Can I help you?’ Mark repeated. As he waited for a reply, he arranged his features into the expression of sympathy he used when speaking to the troubled.

After a few seconds, the stranger spoke in a whisper, his voice muffled behind the scarf. ‘I want to make a confession.’

Mark hesitated but if this person needed to share something in confidence, he felt it was his duty to help.

‘Come into the vestry. There’s a kettle there and I can make us a cup of tea.’ As he took a step forward, the stranger backed out of the doorway. ‘If something’s troubling you, I’m here to listen,’ he added, hoping his words sounded encouraging and non-judgemental.

All of a sudden the man vanished from sight. Mark assumed he’d lost his nerve at the last moment. He followed him out into the body of the church and saw that he’d slid into one of the front pews, where he sat staring at the altar beyond the ornate rood screen. Outside, the sun had retreated behind a cloud, plunging everything into deep shadow as Mark walked slowly over to the man and took a seat a few feet away.

‘There’s nothing so bad that God can’t forgive, you know,’ he said softly.

He saw the man shake his head, but he still couldn’t see his face. ‘How does your God feel about murder?’

For a few moments, all suitable words fled from Mark’s head. The visitor showed no sign of moving, so he waited a while before asking his next question. ‘Are you saying you’ve murdered somebody?’

‘It was a long time ago, but I was responsible.’ There was a lengthy pause and Mark sensed there was more to come. ‘And now it’s going to happen again … soon.’

Mark took a deep breath. The man’s words had shaken him, but he was determined not to show it. ‘You wouldn’t be here talking to me if you didn’t want to be stopped.’

‘You don’t understand. I can’t stop it. I don’t know how.’

Without warning, the stranger sprang up and dashed out of the church, slamming the heavy oak door behind him. Mark followed him into the porch, rushing past the parish notices and lost umbrellas into the daylight, his heart pounding as the realisation that he’d just been sitting a few feet away from a murderer sank in.

He looked around, searching for his visitor, but the only sign of life in the churchyard was a gang of crows flapping and cackling in the skeletal branches of the surrounding trees.

The murderer, whoever he was, had gone.

Report of Petherham Burial Circle

19 January 1882

Payments received: £13 2s. 9d

Payments made: £6 1s. 10d

The board of the Circle regrets to report the deaths of two members. Mary Tucker passed away on the thirteenth day of July, at the age of seventy-nine. Her funeral took place at the church of St Mary Magdalene followed by interment in the churchyard, paid for by the Circle.

Elizabeth Boden, daughter of John Boden of Church Cottages, passed away from a fever on the twentieth day of July, at the age of nine. She was also buried in the grounds of the church of St Mary Magdalene after a funeral service in the church, paid for by the Circle.

The Circle has the honour of welcoming Dr Christopher Cruckshank onto the board. As our new village doctor, he will be a valued member of the committee. Let it be recorded that the meeting welcomed him in the customary manner.

Dr Cruckshank, formerly of London, is a wise and experienced physician and will be a worthy successor to Dr Smith, who was called to his reward in November after a short illness.

DCI Gerry Heffernan seemed to be in a remarkably good mood as he entered the CID office singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’ in a tuneful baritone.

DI Wesley Peterson looked up from his paperwork. ‘You’re cheerful today, Gerry.’

‘It’s Christmas in a few weeks. Besides, everything’s been quiet since that farm near Whitely was done over.’

‘It won’t last. Never does.’

‘Know your trouble, Wes? You’re a pessimist. We got ’em, didn’t we? Remanded in custody till the trial.’

‘As long as no one else starts targeting farms.’ DS Rachel Tracey’s face was solemn as she joined in the conversation. ‘I worry about my parents. They’re not getting any younger.’

‘Are any of us?’ said Gerry.

The newly married Rachel came from a family who’d farmed the Devon land for generations, as did her new husband, Nigel Haynes. The marriage had been the union of two dynasties well acquainted with the realities of farming life.

‘Hope you’ve been advising that new husband of yours on security,’ said Gerry, wagging his finger.

Rachel looked away. ‘He’s well aware of it already, boss.’

The phone on Wesley’s desk began to ring, and he was surprised to hear his brother-in-law’s voice on the other end of the line. As far as he could recall, Mark had never called him at work before.

‘Hi, Mark. Everything OK?’

‘No, it’s not actually. I think I might have just been speaking to a murderer.’

Mark was talking quietly, as though he didn’t want to be overheard, and Wesley pressed the receiver closer to his ear. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A man came into the church while I was alone in the vestry. He said he wanted to make a confession, so I invited him in expecting a heart-to-heart about something that was troubling him. I didn’t imagine … ’ His words trailed off and Wesley waited patiently for him to continue.

‘I thought he’d probably been cheating on his wife or pinching from the petty cash – the sort of sin you come across most days in my job, but …’

‘What did he say?’

‘That he’d murdered somebody.’

‘Who? When?’

‘He said it was a long time ago.’

Suddenly Mark’s call lost its urgency

‘I wouldn’t worry too much. We get people coming into the station confessing to all sorts. Attention-seekers … or people with problems.’

‘I realise that, but I had the impression he was telling the truth.’ Mark hesitated, and Wesley knew he had more to say. ‘He told me it was going to happen again. He said he didn’t know how to stop it.’

‘Did you recognise him?’

‘No. He had his face covered and his voice wasn’t familiar. He ran out of the church before I had a chance to ask any more.’ There was a long pause. ‘Trouble is, Wes, I think he was deadly serious. I think someone’s going to be murdered.’

Come and experience the paranormal in the comfortable surroundings of Mill House, Petherham. Book now for a ghostly weekend at our luxury B&B in the company of renowned TV psychic Damien Lee.

As soon as Corrine Malin had seen the advert on social media, she’d booked right away. It would be good to conduct her research in comfort for a change.

She’d always been fascinated by the paranormal – a purely academic interest, she assured anyone who looked as though they were about to sneer at her gullibility – and when she’d embarked on her doctorate at Morbay University, she’d chosen it as the subject of her thesis. The role of the paranormal in modern-day life and its effects on contemporary thought. She was pleased with the title; it sounded scholarly, with no hint of the sensational or the Gothic. It also allowed her a lot of scope.

She had done her first degree at Exeter. Later, having abandoned work in an insurance office at the age of thirty, she’d decided to pursue her dream of continuing her academic career, taking a part-time job serving in a Morbay restaurant to make ends meet, a necessity of life as a mature student.

After months of counting the pennies, the prospect of spending a long weekend of luxury at Mill House had proved irresistible. Besides, she had a personal reason for wanting to visit Petherham – something she felt unable to share with anyone else, because nobody would understand.

Mill House had once been home to the owner of the water-powered textile mill on Pether Creek, a tidal inlet three miles north of Tradmouth. The house and mill were reputed to have a history of death, tragedy and misfortune, although Corrine intended to keep an open mind. According to the publicity she’d seen, the present owner had fulfilled his dream of reopening the place as a working mill; a tourist attraction that also produced woollen cloth, mainly for soft furnishings and souvenirs. But this aspect didn’t particularly interest Corrine. She’d leave the industrial history of the area to those who appreciated that sort of thing.

She’d paid for the stay upfront, gritting her teeth at the cost, and as she steered her fifteen-year-old Yaris into the parking space, she looked at the other cars in the small paved area outside the house. There was a new BMW sitting beside an Audi – the latest model – along with a flashy car with a personalised number plate whose make she didn’t recognise. As she took her case from the car boot, she was conscious that it was worn and tatty, having been pressed into use often since her undergraduate days.

Inside were her clothes, carefully chosen from local charity shops for the stay. And she’d brought with her the most important thing of all – the little wooden box she’d bought at the car boot sale. She wanted to find out the truth about its contents and she hoped Mill House would provide the answers – along with some material that would add originality and sparkle to her dissertation.

A stiff breeze was whipping the leafless trees surrounding the village into a frenzy, and from the look of the darkening sky, a storm was brewing. It was four o’clock, and in the fading light she could see that Mill House resembled a Georgian-style doll’s house, beautifully symmetrical, with a glossy red front door and sash windows already lit up in welcome. A wreath of dried flowers dangled from the lion’s-head knocker and a tasteful painted sign beside the entrance confirmed that she’d come to the right address.

She pulled her shoulders back, gathered her confidence and marched up the front path. The email she’d received had informed the guests that their rooms would be available from midday onwards, but she’d worked a lunchtime shift in the restaurant before she set off, so she suspected she might be the last to arrive.

She rang the doorbell, a grand circular ceramic affair bearing the instruction PRESS, and heard a distant jangling. The woman who answered the door was tall and blonde. At first, with her slim figure, short denim skirt and long straight hair, Corrine thought she must be in her twenties; thirties at most. Then she noticed the wrinkled neck and the lined skin stretched tight across her cheekbones. The woman was fifty if she was a day. Possibly older.

Her hostess switched on a smile that didn’t spread to her eyes. ‘You must be Corrine. Come in out of the cold. Welcome to Petherham Mill House. I’m Selina Quayle.’ She held out her hand, and when Corrine took it, she found it ice cold and the handshake limp. ‘I’ll show you to your room. Would you like any help with your case?’

Detecting a note of disapproval in her hostess’s voice, Corrine shook her head vigorously, self-conscious about her shabby luggage and reluctant to give a stranger possession of her new treasure, even for a few moments. She followed the woman up the thickly carpeted stairs, resting the case every now and then. The banisters were original, polished mahogany and cast iron, and she knew they must have witnessed the things that had happened here over a century ago – if the contents of her box were to be believed. She’d heard that buildings could absorb emotions and play them back, like a tape. But so far, to her disappointment, the house had given her nothing.

When they reached the landing, Selina Quayle led her to a door at the far end. ‘This is you. Do come down and meet the others when you’re ready. If you need anything in the meantime, just let me know.’ She gave Corrine another smile, no more convincing than the last. ‘Damien will be arriving tomorrow. I’ve heard he’s wonderful.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Corrine replied, suddenly eager to be on her own.

To her relief Selina didn’t linger, and once she’d gone, Corrine hoisted her case onto the stand in the corner of the room and looked around. The advert hadn’t lied. The room was large and tastefully decorated, with a neat en suite shower room and a view over Pether Creek. The bed was luxuriously large, and she lay down and closed her eyes, relishing a few minutes of self-indulgence before rising to her feet and opening her case.

She’d packed the box between two sweaters for protection, and now she took it out carefully, stroking the highly polished surface inlaid with geometric patterns in different-coloured woods. She opened it and spread its contents on the bed before studying her room, wondering whether this was where the strange photographs she’d found in the secret compartment in the base of the box had been taken. Those carefully posed images of the dead.

As a farmer’s wife, Stella Tracey was accustomed to the vagaries of the Devon weather. Even so, on Thursday night she felt uneasy. She’d heard the dogs barking as the wind howled around the farmhouse. She knew the cattle in the barn were bound to be restless because of the brewing storm, so earlier on she’d asked her eldest son, Tom, who lived with his wife and family in one of the adjoining cottages, to check on them.

Her husband, Jim, had fallen asleep in front of the TV, as he did so often these days, exhausted from rising for the early-morning milking, and she was glad that Tom and his two brothers were there to shoulder the responsibility of making sure all was well. She had told Jim time and time again to start taking it easy and leave the hard graft to the next generation, but he was a stubborn man, which meant there were frequent arguments. Their daughter, Rachel, had inherited her father’s determined nature. Although Stella supposed that was a useful trait in a detective sergeant.

Stella had missed Rachel ever since she’d decided to leave home to share a house with Trish, another policewoman. (She knew you weren’t supposed to call them policewomen nowadays for reasons of equality, but she often lost track of what you were and weren’t allowed to say.) Rachel was her only daughter, and her absence hit Stella hard. However, with the farm to run, she didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on it, which, she told herself, was probably a good thing.

The run-up to Rachel’s wedding had brought mother and daughter closer for a while. It had been a wonderful day: the sun had shone – a minor miracle for an autumn wedding – and Rachel had looked serene in her plain white gown, her face solemn as she walked up the aisle of St Margaret’s church on her father’s arm. For a brief moment she had hesitated before saying the words ‘I will’, but Stella had put the pause down to her daughter being nervous, as brides were meant to be. She knew Rachel would be happy with Nigel Haynes, a solid, reliable young man who owned a large farm a few miles away. How could she be otherwise? And it had been good to see her police colleagues at the service and reception, particularly Wesley Peterson, of whom Rachel had always spoken so highly.

As the bride’s mother, Stella had played a major role in the preparations, and now that the wedding was over, she felt empty, as though her part in her daughter’s life was over. But you couldn’t hold on to your children for ever. Perhaps that was the bitterest lesson any parent had to learn.

She spent a restless night listening to the storm while her husband snored by her side. As the years had gone on, she’d grown to hate the winter months, when they had to rise in the darkness, but she was well used to it, and at 4.30 in the morning she slid out of bed, giving him a nudge.

The livestock had to be attended to first. Then everyone would come in for a cooked breakfast. The routine was the same each day, rain or shine, summer or winter.

Over breakfast, Jim hardly said a word, leaving the talking to his sons, and once the breakfast things were cleared away, Tom made an announcement. ‘A tree’s come down on the edge of that field we ploughed the other day – the one near the lane. I’m going down to have a look.’

Stella saw that Jim was about to rise from his seat, but she put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Hang on,’ she told Tom. ‘I’ll come with you. It’s stopped raining and I fancy the walk.’ She turned to her husband. ‘You stay there, love. I’ll see what’s what.’

As soon as she’d donned her wellingtons and old waxed coat, they set out, walking over the fields in companionable silence. It wasn’t until they’d reached the newly ploughed field that Tom finally told his mother what was on his mind.

‘I’m worried about Dad. He hasn’t looked well since our Rachel’s wedding.’

Tom had put her own fears into words, and she thought for a while before she answered. ‘You know what he’s like, Tom. If I say he should see a doctor, he’ll accuse me of fussing.’

‘Always playing the tough guy,’ said Tom with a roll of his eyes.

‘He won’t admit he’s getting older, that’s all. I’ll have another word. Not that it’ll do much good.’

The subject was closed. Stella could see the fallen tree a few yards away, a large sycamore propped against the hedgerow.

‘It’ll be blocking the lane,’ said Tom. ‘There’s not much traffic down there this time of year, but it needs to be moved. I’ll go and get the tractor to shift it. Eli can give me a hand. I’m surprised he didn’t notice it when he came in this morning.’

‘Probably too dark. It was quite a storm last night. Mind you, that trunk was probably half rotten. Could have come down any time.’

Stella strolled up to the sycamore. Lying there, it looked massive, a felled giant. She’d known that tree since she’d arrived at Little Barton Farm as a bride, and she felt an unexpected pang of sorrow.

She glanced down into the crater where the roots had been torn from the earth and saw something lying half buried. She crouched down to tug it out, and as it emerged from the loosened soil, she saw that it was a rucksack.

‘Someone must have dumped it,’ said Tom, leaning over to see what his mother had found. ‘What’s that?’

He was pointing to the edge of the hole, where something stood out dirty white against the rich red earth. Stella began to push the damp soil away with her bare hands until the object was partially revealed.

‘There aren’t any animals buried here, are there?’ Tom asked.

‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘Not that I remember anyway.’

She uncovered more of the thing until she could see it clearly. Then she stood up and brushed the dirt from her hands. ‘I think we should call our Rachel.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t forget I was a nurse before I had you lot. I’m pretty sure this isn’t an animal bone. I might be wrong, but I think it could be human.’

Tom took out his mobile phone and called his sister.

Rachel Tracey had decided to keep her maiden name at work because she thought it would avoid confusion. So when her brother Tom asked to speak to Detective Sergeant Haynes, he was told by the switchboard that there was no such person working in CID. It took a couple of minutes to clear up the misunderstanding, and he was eventually put through to her extension.

When Rachel broke the news to Gerry Heffernan, he didn’t look pleased. ‘It’s a farm, isn’t it? They’ll be animal bones.’

‘Dead livestock are taken away.’

‘Dogs?’

‘They’re like family, so they have their own little burial ground near the house. As far as my mother knows, nothing’s ever been buried in that particular spot. Besides, she used to be a nurse, so she recognises human bones when she sees them,’ she added, irritated by her boss’s doubts.

Gerry let out a long sigh. ‘Skeletons are more Wesley’s thing than mine. Have you told him?’ Wesley had studied archaeology at university, so Gerry regarded him as the expert on all things long-buried.

‘He’s downstairs at the moment interviewing a witness to that theft at the gallery in the high street. My brother says they found a rucksack buried with the bones. It’s made of some sort of artificial fibre, so it’s well preserved. It’s red.’

‘You sure?’

‘That’s what he said.’

Gerry frowned as though he was trying to grasp some elusive memory. Then a look of triumph appeared on his face. ‘There was that case years ago – the hitch-hiker who went missing. A couple of witnesses who saw her in the area said she was carrying a red rucksack. But she was last spotted in Falmouth, so the search was diverted to Cornwall. As far as I know, she’s still a missing person.’

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Well, if it does turn out to be her, how the hell did she end up buried on my parents’ land?’

‘That’s what we need to find out.’

Breakfast at Mill House was scheduled for 9.15; late to give everybody a leisurely start. The food was good. After fresh orange juice and wholegrain muesli, Corrine opted for smoked salmon and creamy scrambled eggs, her favourite. She was surprised to discover how hungry she’d been as she tucked into the rustic wholemeal toast and home-made jam that followed.

The guests sat around what was the city dweller’s idea of a farmhouse table. Scrubbed pine, and spacious enough for some imaginary farmer’s wife to prepare a week’s worth of wholesome bread and cakes on. Only Corrine suspected this one had originated in some swish London furniture store.

The table easily accommodated eight people, and she tried to concentrate on her food to avoid having to make conversation. She was never at her most sociable first thing in the morning, and she wished everyone had been allocated separate tables. But realising she couldn’t avoid the company of her fellow guests, she gritted her teeth and made the best of it.

She had met them all the previous night in the drawing room, with Selina playing the hostess and making the introductions, but had fled upstairs at the earliest opportunity, saying she had calls to make. It had been a lie. She’d wanted to be alone. And she’d wanted to examine the contents of her box again.

She looked up from her toast and saw the man opposite watching her. His name was Brad Percy and he’d told her last night that he owned an IT company. He was in his forties, she reckoned, and he had shaved his head to conceal his incipient hair loss. His clothes were expensive and he had been eager to inform her that he’d just bought a new car: a Tesla, the latest model and so good for the environment. He had monopolised her, telling her all about the new vehicle he clearly found so fascinating – although she hadn’t been able to share his enthusiasm. After half an hour, she had been losing the will to live. She was there to investigate people’s belief in paranormal activity, not to be lectured on boys’ toys.

‘You’re enjoying that, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Must say, the food’s up to standard. Did you sleep well?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ she answered, concentrating on buttering another piece of toast.

This wasn’t true, but it avoided the need for further explanation. In reality, Corrine had lain in the centre of the big bed, her ears straining for any sound, wondering if the events that had taken place in that house had left any imprint. She wished she knew which room the photographs had been taken in – whether it had been hers or one of the others. Perhaps when the psychic arrived she would find out.

Brad had just opened his mouth to continue the conversation when Selina Quayle cleared her throat. ‘Damien’s very keen to meet you all,’ she said with a forced smile.

Her husband, Jeremy, a tall man with ginger hair and a beard to match, was seated at the other end of the table like a Victorian paterfamilias, but he’d said nothing since his initial morning greeting and was now staring at his empty plate as though fascinated by the pattern of egg stains on the white china. He’d been quiet the previous evening too, leaving most of the talking to his wife. Corrine thought he looked worried about something – perhaps whether the psychic was going to turn up, and what he was going to say . . .