The Killing Place

Book 27: DI Wesley Peterson

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Million-copy bestselling author Kate Ellis returns with the brand new book in the DI Wesley Peterson crime series.

'A beguiling author who interweaves past and present' THE TIMES

November. With the tourist season well and truly over in South Devon, Detective Inspector Wesley Peterson is looking forward to a quieter month in the CID. But when a man is shot dead on Bonfire Night, he finds he has a disturbing murder case on his hands.

The body of Patrick North was found in woodland connected to Nesbaraton Hall, a grand estate dating back to the eighteenth century. North worked for the Smithson family who now own the estate. The family are away on holiday, however when an anonymous letter threatening to abduct the Smithson son is uncovered, Wesley fears North's death might have been collateral damage in a kidnap plot.

Meanwhile, archaeologist Dr Neil Watson discovers a hidden grotto on land that was once part of the Nesbaraton estate. Evidence of past rituals and the shocking discovery of a skeleton raise questions about strange occurrences, past and present, on the land.

Then, just when Wesley's team seem to be making progress in their investigation, a resident of the nearby village is killed in a near-identical shooting to North's. A race is on to find the ruthless killer, before they strike again . . .

Whether you've read the whole series, or are discovering Kate Ellis's DI Wesley Peterson novels for the first time, this is the perfect page-turner if you love reading Ann Cleeves and Elly Griffiths.

Praise for Kate Ellis . . .

'Clever plotting hides a powerful story of loss, malice and deception' Ann Cleeves

'Haunting' Independent

'The chilling plot will keep you spooked and thrilled to the end' Closer

'Unputdownable' Bookseller

'A fine storyteller, weaving the past and present in a way that makes you want to read on' Peterborough Evening Telegraph

Release date: August 3, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

5 November

The woman in the sedan chair had been wearing a powdered wig and a fine gown of blue satin, low-necked and edged with yellowing lace. She could easily have been mistaken for the restless ghost who was said to inhabit the place. But Patrick North knew that she was no ghost. She was a corpse.

Patrick had never experienced real terror before. But this was the first time he’d ever come face to face with death.

He forced himself to keep moving, trying to ignore the sharp stitch in his side and the aching heaviness in his legs. He needed to reach safety and tell someone what he’d seen. But the woodland around him seemed endless, and as he ran, his trainers slipped on the damp brown foliage covering the ground. He could smell decay, the musty rot of dying things. An omen perhaps; a sign that his life was about to end.

He could hear explosions in the distance, loud as gunfire, and he saw faraway cascades of light brighten the sky. It was Bonfire Night, and not too far away, people were enjoying themselves, oblivious to his fear.

He stopped to catch his breath and listened. When the noise of the fireworks stopped, he could hear faint taunting laughter getting closer, as though his tormentor was confident of victory – however long it took.

Patrick took his phone from his pocket. There’d been no signal when he’d tried before, but now maybe . . . But the thing was as dead as the leaves on the ground. Any chance of escape was fading fast.

He knew he was somewhere on the estate, but he wasn’t sure where. All he knew was that if he didn’t reach the road soon, he was a dead man. His pursuer was closing in on him, crashing through the undergrowth. Patrick flattened his body against a thick tree trunk. Perhaps if he kept very still . . .

‘Come out, come out, wherever you are. You can’t get away. You might as well give up now.’

His tormentor’s voice disturbed the crows in the treetops, and their raucous cries mocked him too, as though the birds were enjoying the game of cat and mouse happening below their nests. Then Patrick heard a twig snap nearby. Someone was creeping towards his chosen tree. This was it. Fight or flight. Life or death.

He broke cover, and when he twisted round, he saw his tormentor walking steadily towards him. He backed up, but found his way blocked by a thick tree trunk.

‘Not much good at this, are you?’ The taunting voice sounded completely calm as Patrick saw the rifle pointing straight at his chest.

Instinctively he raised both his hands, something he’d seen people do in films, but the eyes staring at him were cold and pitiless, as though this was nothing – just a game to pass the time.

Patrick had always thought himself too young to imagine how he’d face death when the time came. But to his surprise, he felt numb and detached, as though he was in the middle of a nightmare, and he’d soon wake and find everything as it should be.

He closed his eyes. A few seconds later, he was lying on the ground. Dead.

As an archaeologist, it wasn’t unknown for Neil Watson to come across human remains in the course of his job, but he hadn’t expected any to turn up in this particular location.

The developer, Jason Fonsby, was anxious to get the archaeological report on the site completed as soon as possible so the building work could begin. Twelve luxury executive homes, each with four bedrooms, the same number of bathrooms, and kitchens double the size of Neil’s Exeter flat. Neil didn’t think anyone he knew personally could afford to live in such luxury. But then most of his social circle were impecunious fellow archaeologists – apart from his old friend from university days, Wesley Peterson, who was a detective inspector.

As soon as he’d arrived that morning, Neil had stood at the entrance to the field, staring at the copse at its centre: a small patch of trees, their branches almost bare now that autumn had stripped them of their foliage. The field had once belonged to a big house nearby, but it had been sold to a local farmer fifteen years ago. The farmer had used it to graze his herd of Devon red cattle until Jason Fonsby made him an offer for the field that was difficult for a cash-strapped farmer to refuse. The place was within easy reach of Neston, and so ideal for housing. Exclusive housing, of course. There wasn’t sufficient profit in affordable homes for local people.

Prior to planning permission being granted, Neil had carried out a routine desk-based archaeological assessment of the site and found vague hints in a Victorian history of the area that strange activities had taken place there in the eighteenth century, although this might have been the product of the nineteenth-century author’s lurid imagination. People love a good story, the more ghoulish the better. However, during his investigations he’d made a surprising discovery: a map of the area dating back to the eighteenth century showing an unexpected feature in the middle of the copse with one intriguing word. Grotto.

Most people associated the word with Santa Claus, but not Neil. Because the land had once formed part of the large estate connected to Nesbarton Hall, a modestly sized but perfectly designed Palladian mansion dating back to the reign of George II, he wondered whether this particular grotto might be a decorative folly, the kind popular with fashionable gentry at that time. In those days a folly was a status symbol to impress the neighbours – like a hot tub or a swimming pool today.

When he’d alerted Jason Fonsby to this possibility, the man hadn’t bothered to hide his irritation. Time was money and he needed the bulldozers on site as soon as possible. But Neil stood his ground. He needed to investigate the feature on the map, and that was that. The County Archaeological Unit didn’t cut corners. And Dr Neil Watson, in his capacity as Heritage Manager, Archaeology and Historic Environment, intended to do a thorough job whether the developer liked it or not.

Neil had decided to make this site visit with his second in command, Dave, who always wore an Indiana Jones hat like a badge of office. Dave was a taciturn man, a good archaeologist, conscientious and reliable, and as the crows cawed from their scruffy nests in the copse, Neil was glad of his company. The dark tunnel of trees ahead of them had the look of a sinister wood from a fairy tale, and both men hesitated a few moments before marching in.

‘Creepy place,’ said Dave, and Neil was relieved that the atmosphere hadn’t just been his imagination.

At first they saw nothing out of the ordinary; just tree trunks, and dank fallen leaves carpeting the ground. If there was anything like a grotto here, it was well hidden.

‘What’s that?’

They’d reached a small clearing, and Dave was pointing to a pile of rocks rearing up from the earth; around eight feet high and covered with moss. Neil walked slowly round them until he saw a round gap in the stones. An entrance into the unknown.

‘Think it’s safe?’ Dave had always been keen on health and safety.

‘Only one way to find out.’

Neil had to stoop a little to gain access. Once inside, he called to Dave. ‘Come and have a look.’

He took his torch from one of the many pockets of his combat jacket and flashed it around the circular chamber. The stones had been worked by a mason and were covered with faded images he couldn’t quite make out in the weak torchlight.

‘What is it? An ice house?’ Dave suggested.

‘It’s too far from the big house. I think it’s some kind of folly; a decorative grotto like it says on that old map. We’ll need to get the team over here to record it properly. With any luck we’ll be able to persuade the developer to preserve it – make it a feature of the development.’

Dave looked sceptical, as though he thought Neil was being over-optimistic.

Neil swept his torch beam around the earth floor. The structure, whatever it was, seemed watertight, because there were no puddles to show that the Devon rain had seeped through. As he did another, slower sweep, the beam caught something at the far end of the cave-like room. The shadow of another entrance. Without another word, he walked towards it.

‘Shouldn’t we be wearing hard hats?’ said Dave behind him.

‘Looks solid enough to me,’ said Neil, his eyes focused on the gap in the stones, a narrow doorway just large enough for a man to get through.

Once he’d squeezed through the entrance, he found himself in a second, smaller room. He pointed his torch at the roof just in case Dave’s misgivings were justified. When he was satisfied that the structure was safe, he flashed the beam round the floor and walls. This room was rectangular, and at the far end he saw what looked like an altar, carved from stone like the rest of the little building. There were words etched on the wall above it, but he couldn’t make them out in the dim light. Cobweb-draped remnants of candles stood in small niches around the walls, and Neil’s first thought was that the place had been used as some sort of chapel.

Then he saw the thing on the altar. A human figure, naked, with unnaturally pale limbs. He backed away, his eyes fixed on the altar as though he hoped the body would get up and tell them it was all a joke. He squeezed back through the entrance and joined Dave in the outer room.

‘Well?’ Dave said as soon as he emerged. ‘What’s in there?’

Neil didn’t answer. He took Dave’s arm and steered him outside into the damp autumn air before taking his phone from his pocket. ‘I’ve got to call the police. There’s a dead body in there and it looks as though it hasn’t been there long.’

He pressed the key to dial Wesley Peterson’s number. Wes would know exactly what to do.

A GENTLEMAN IS DESIROUS OF AN ACTOR TO ASSUME A MOST IMPORTANT ROLE FOR THE AMUSEMENT AND ENTERTAINMENT OF CERTAIN PERSONS OF QUALITY IN THE COUNTY OF DEVONSHIRE.

THE ACTOR IN QUESTION SHOULD BE YOUNG AND PERSONABLE WITH THE ABILITY TO PERFORM CONVINCINGLY ANY ROLE GIVEN TO HIM. A GENEROUS REWARD AWAITS THE SUCCESSFUL APPLICANT.

CONTACT NATHANIEL NESCOTE AT THE MOON AND STARS TAVERN ON FLEET STREET AT ONE OF THE CLOCK THIS SATURDAY.

When this request for an actor to perform for persons of quality was brought to my attention by Mr Bruce, I wavered at first.

I had nursed such hopes of acquiring a leading role at our theatre, but since Mr Bruce’s nephew joined the company, I have had to be contented with taking minor roles in each production.

I carried a spear in the play of Macbeth but did not speak, and I was a servant in Mr Wycherley’s play The Country Wife. It seems that each role I am offered requires me to be dumb, and yet I have been told I have a fine speaking voice.

I fear that my dearest hopes are destined to be thwarted while Mr Bruce’s relative plays the hero. He is a handsome young man – more handsome than myself, I confess. I do not like his haughty manner, but as Mr Bruce is manager of the theatre as well as the leading actor, I see no future for me here.

I shall attend the Moon and Stars tavern at one of the clock this Saturday. They say Devonshire is a fine county.

The Anglo-Saxon name for November was Blotmonath – Blood Month, when fattened animals were slaughtered to save the expense of keeping them alive through winter. The second of the month is All Souls’ Day, when people traditionally remember the souls of the departed, and more recently, it has become the month when the nation commemorates the war dead. Spring might herald hope and rebirth, but November has always been the time of death.

Geoff Haynes loved the old country lore and he liked to think he was quite an expert, having lived in the Devon countryside for seventy-nine years. He’d even written a book about it – more of a booklet really – which still sold in small quantities in the tourist shops of Tradmouth and Neston.

Geoff pulled on his sturdy black wellingtons, spattered with mud after years of service in the landscape around Gorfleet Farm. He’d seen the incomers in their posh green wellies getting out of their massive SUVs. All show; playing at being country folk like that French queen who had her head chopped off used to play at being a shepherdess even though she wouldn’t have known one end of a sheep from the other. Geoff had no time for people like that – and there were so many of them about these days.

Bessy, his black and white Border collie, who was a veteran of many a sheep dog trial, hurried to her master’s side. Walk time. Even dogs who were well past retirement enjoyed their daily exercise.

It wasn’t raining, which made a change at that time of year. As Geoff walked across the cobbles in front of his cottage with Bessy trotting by his side, he glanced back at the recently renovated building. It had once housed a labourer and his family – up to eight kids in those days – but Geoff lived there alone. He’d never married, unlike his nephew, Peter, whose son, Nigel, now ran the farm. Geoff had always been the odd one out in the Haynes family, the impractical dreamer among a tribe of down-to-earth farmers. He’d done his bit on the farm in his time, but now it was just him and Bessy. And his recently arrived unexpected guest.

Geoff had considered it his Christian duty to offer the stranger shelter in his spare bedroom. He’d been raised to be kind to his fellow creatures, so when he’d found the man who called himself Ben wandering in a nearby lane, confused and obviously in need of help, he’d brought him back to the cottage. He’d asked gentle questions, but the man’s replies were evasive, so he still knew nothing about Ben or his background. When he’d tentatively asked him whether he’d like someone to take him to hospital for a check-up, the answer had been no; all he needed was rest and time to recover.

Geoff knew that if his nephew or great-nephew found out about Ben, they’d warn him to be careful. Nigel was married to a policewoman – a detective sergeant – so maybe she had taught him to be suspicious. Perhaps Rachel came home from work each night with tales of robbery and murder, and no doubt she’d say that any stranger who turned up out of the blue might be a threat to his safety. However, at his age, Geoff preferred to use his own judgement.

Geoff trudged across the fields. It was Nigel’s land now, much of it pasture for the dairy herd. Cows stared at him curiously as he passed by, but Bessy dutifully ignored them; she was a farm dog who knew how to behave around livestock. When he reached the thick hedgerow that formed the field boundary, he paused. Beyond that, the land belonged to the place they’d always called the Big House, although its proper name was Nesbarton Hall. Many years ago, Gorfleet Farm had belonged to the hall, and the Haynes family had been tenant farmers until Geoff’s great-grandfather had bought the farm from the then owner of the hall, who’d run up tremendous gambling debts and been forced to sell his assets at a knock-down price. The Nescote family, who’d owned Nesbarton Hall back then, had been a terrible lot, according to Geoff’s grandad, but the last of them had passed away in the 1960s, leaving no heirs. Since then the hall had been used as a convent, a convalescent hospital and a boarding school. Then for years it had lain unused until the present owner had bought it. Rumour had it that he was a billionaire, but few people in the area had ever seen him.

Geoff opened the big metal gate and Bessy walked through ahead of him before he shut it again. Although he’d never seen the billionaire, he imagined it would be no skin off his nose if one of his neighbours walked his dog on a distant piece of his extensive estate. More than likely he’d never even realise. From where Geoff stood, he could see the Big House nestling in a hollow almost a mile away. Its white facade reminded him of a doll’s house. With a classical portico at the centre and a wing either side, it was pleasingly symmetrical, with a compact practicality that made it feasible as a family home – providing the family could afford that sort of thing.

He walked on, keeping close to the hedgerow, making for the area of woodland where Bessy loved sniffing for foxes and squirrels. As he walked in among the trees, he could see tattered nests dotted around in the bare branches. The crows were making more of a racket than usual, and he wondered fleetingly what had disturbed them. He hoped the landowner hadn’t chosen that moment to take a stroll around his estate, but if he encountered him – or her – he’d plead ignorance; play the village idiot. It was what some incomers expected after all.

Bessy ran ahead into the undergrowth and started to bark urgently, which wasn’t like her at all.

‘Here, Bessy. Come here, girl.’

She came bounding back, looking up at him, still barking loudly. Geoff knew she was trying to tell him something important, and as he followed her, she stopped every now and then to check that he was still behind her.

‘All right, girl. What is it? What have you found?’

When she stopped, tail still wagging, he saw that she was standing beside a human body. A young man, fully clothed and lying face down.

‘Come away, girl. Leave it.’

Bessy sloped to his side as though he’d just ruined her moment of triumph. Geoff didn’t have a mobile phone. He didn’t believe in them. He retraced his steps to the cottage and rang the farmhouse on his landline.

‘Is that you, Nigel? It’s Uncle Geoff. Is your Rachel there? There’s something she might want to know.’

‘What’s all the fuss about? Your mate Neil’s always finding skeletons. That’s his job, isn’t it?’

Detective Inspector Wesley Peterson smiled indulgently at his boss. He’d learned long ago never to take DCI Gerry Heffernan’s comments too seriously – unless they were about a case they were working on. Wesley and Neil had studied archaeology together at Exeter University, but Wesley had joined the police while Neil pursued a career in archaeology. The two had remained friends despite their very different backgrounds. Wesley was the son of two doctors from Trinidad who’d sent their academically bright children to expensive schools and steered them towards what they considered to be suitable paths, while Neil’s parents had favoured a more relaxed approach. Eventually both men had found their respective niches in life – although Wesley sometimes wondered whether his career choice had disappointed his ambitious parents.

‘If Neil had unearthed a skeleton during a dig, he’d hardly be in such a panic. He says he’s found a body and suggests we send the crime-scene team to have a look – and Dr Bowman.’

DCI Heffernan scratched his head. He was a big man, with grizzled hair and a Liverpool accent he’d never lost even though he’d lived in Devon for decades. ‘What else did he say? Is it a man or a woman? Any sign of a cause of death – or a murder weapon?’

‘He said it was a woman and he thought she might be naked.’

‘Surely he knows what a naked woman looks like by now. Didn’t know he’d led such a sheltered life.’ Wesley saw Gerry’s lips twitch upwards in a smile, then he swiftly became serious. Gerry’s mischievous sense of humour meant that he made a joke of many things, but untimely death was no laughing matter.

‘He only had a small torch, so there was hardly any light. And he didn’t want to hang around and contaminate the scene. He knows the procedure as well as we do.’

Gerry made the call – the whole circus, as he called it, would be converging on the location Neil had specified. And he and Wesley would be joining them.

The CID office was quiet. The tourist season with its accompanying troubles was well and truly behind them for another year, but there’d been reports of pickpockets operating at the fireworks display on the riverfront the previous Saturday. Crowds always attracted crime. They were also dealing with a spate of distraction burglaries, stolen quad bikes, the theft of kayaks that had been locked up for the winter, and an assault outside a pub over the river in Queenswear. Gerry tried to look on the bright side, saying that if crime stopped, they’d all be out of a job.

But now it looked as though they had something more serious to deal with. A suspicious death between Tradmouth and Neston, not far from Gorfleet Farm, where Rachel lived with her farmer husband, Nigel Haynes. DS Rachel Tracey – she still used her maiden name at work – was on maternity leave following the birth of her first baby in August, a son called Freddie. Wesley was surprised at how much he missed his detective sergeant, and he wondered whether to pay her a visit while they were in the area. He was sure she’d want to know what was happening in the CID office in her absence. On the other hand, he remembered how his wife, Pam, had felt after their own first child was born. With the relentless demands of a new infant, she didn’t have the head space to think about work. That came later, once things had settled down into a manageable routine. However, it was possible that by now Rachel had started to see things differently; that she might even be longing for a glimpse of the outside world.

He was surprised when Gerry seemed to read his mind.

‘The place isn’t far from Rach’s farm, so maybe we can pop in to say hello after we’ve seen what’s going on. We’re bound to have half an hour or so twiddling our thumbs while the crime-scene people do their bit, and if I know Rach, she’ll want to be kept up to date with all the station gossip.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Plus it’ll give her a break from dirty nappies.’ Gerry chuckled. He might put the fear of God into new recruits to CID, but Wesley had learned long ago that underneath the bluster he was a big softie, and he guessed his boss was looking forward to a cuddle with the new baby.

Gerry said little more as they drove to the site of Neil’s discovery. When they arrived, the first thing Wesley noticed was a large sign standing at the field entrance. Fonsby Executive Homes – an exclusive development of twelve luxury homes. There was a phone number and a website address beneath the announcement.

‘Bet they won’t come cheap,’ Gerry observed as he climbed out of the passenger seat. ‘What was Neil doing here anyway?’

‘It’s a condition of planning permission that there has to be an archaeological assessment. You can’t have developers digging just anywhere. If there’s an Anglo-Saxon cemetery, for instance . . .’

‘Is that what he thinks is here?’ Gerry stood at the gate to the field.

‘No. I’m just using that as an example. He spotted a feature on an old map and he wanted to investigate. A grotto.’

‘That reminds me, it’ll be Christmas soon.’ Gerry grinned, showing the gap in his front teeth, something he’d always claimed was a sign of good luck. ‘Maybe we should make the CID Christmas do fancy dress this year. I bags being Santa.’ He chuckled. ‘Can you imagine our DCs dressed as elves?’

Wesley couldn’t resist a smile at the mental image of the team wearing green tights and pointed ears. ‘It isn’t that kind of grotto, Gerry. He thinks it might be a folly connected with the big house nearby – Nesbarton Hall.’

‘I stand corrected. Field looks muddy – we’ll need our wellies.’

Without another word, Wesley opened the car boot and both men pulled on their wellington boots. Wesley could see activity about a hundred yards away centred round a copse of trees. It had been raining for the past few days and the water had softened the earth, so as they made their way across the field, their feet sank into the ground. He hoped the new luxury homes would have good foundations.

A barrier of blue and white police tape was draped around the trees at the entrance to the copse, and two CSIs in white crime-scene suits were strolling through the trees towards them. Wesley was surprised to see that they were grinning.

‘Well?’ Gerry shouted to them. ‘What have we got?’

‘False alarm. It’s some kind of dummy. Someone must have put it there as a joke. We’ve called the pathologist to let him know. Didn’t want him to have a wasted journey.’

Standing there in the cold and damp, Wesley found himself wishing that his friend hadn’t been so fastidious about preserving a potential crime scene and had at least bothered to make a cursory examination of the ‘body’. On the other hand, he knew that Neil had done the right thing. Archaeologists were as good as crime-scene teams at preserving vital evidence.

‘At least it’s got us out into the fresh air,’ said Gerry with a sigh. ‘We might as well have a look now we’re here.’

The CSI turned and pointed. ‘It’s in a weird sort of cave in the middle of the trees. ‘Keep going and you’ll see it straight ahead.’

Wesley followed his directions with Gerry following behind. By good fortune they arrived just as the floodlight. . .