[Kitt Hartley 05] - A Witch Hunt in Whitby

by Helen Cox

  ‘He put it inside one of those shopping trollies on wheels and pushed it there. The spot where you were attacked is actually not very far at all from where Seaview is in Sandsend. It’s less than a ten-minute walk, even if you were taking the pace easy. He had found out from Benji that you were staying at the Elysium Guest House, he’d just asked innocently if you were coming from far away, and once he knew where you were staying, he crept out of his window at first light and pulled the trolley case with him.’

  ‘And he just happened to know I’d feel like a walk down on the beach that morning?’ said Kitt, her tone dubious.

  ‘No, he never planned to throw it off the cliff, actually. His plan was to leave it outside your hotel room door as a frightening message, that’s why he scratched the word “die” into the top of it. But when he saw you down on the beach, he decided that having something like that thrown in your direction would likely send a much stronger message.’

  ‘Well, he’s not wrong about that. Oh, he’s got an answer for everything,’ said Kitt, slumping in exasperation.

  ‘Yes, funnily enough I haven’t been sat twiddling my thumbs for almost forty-eight hours. That’s exactly what I’ve been making sure of.’

  Kitt sighed. ‘Do you really believe all this?’

  ‘I believe he believes it,’ said Halloran. ‘But no. I’m not convinced, despite all the evidence. There was something about the way he told the story . . . he had several moments in interview where he was very hesitant about answering the questions. And not in the way perps usually are. Not in such a way that it seems obvious they’re just biding time while they think of a plausible excuse. He was having to search his mind for the answers. There was something really off about it. And he was displaying several of his dementia symptoms throughout so I don’t believe he isn’t sick like he says. I think someone has convinced him to say that.’

  ‘Whoever they are, they’d better hope you get your hands on them before I do. Conditioning a vulnerable man suffering with a mental illness, it’s enough to . . . to . . . to make you want to do things you can’t do when you’re going out with a police inspector.’

  ‘I know,’ said Halloran. ‘The sad thing is how resigned he is to the fact that he’s really the killer. When I explained after everything he’d told us that he’d likely be charged as an accomplice, he said he was just relieved that he couldn’t hurt anyone else.’

  Kitt shook her head, thinking for a moment. ‘And nothing came of the list of people who work with Cyril at the care home?’

  ‘We interviewed the people on that list while taking breaks from interviewing Cyril. All of them have alibis for the murders – most of them were on shift at Seaview, and they can also vouch for their whereabouts when the victims’ doors were marked. Cyril’s medication has been properly administered as far as we can see but there’s still a strong likelihood that the medication he’s on has made it easier for whoever’s really behind this to manipulate him.’

  ‘What about Alan Jenkins then? If the initials are anything to go by he wrote the play Cyril appeared in, and then he just magically turns up in Cyril’s life as a long-lost cousin? Did you track him down?’

  ‘We’ve been calling the number Cyril has for him but the phone is out of service. Untrackable.’

  ‘Isn’t that suspicious in itself? And after all Stella Hemsworth said about the fact she was paid to make that play.’

  ‘We asked Cyril about that. He said he wrote the letters and gave Stella the address of a man he knew out in Sandersdale. According to Cyril he’s just an old friend who used to live in Whitby. Glen Tucker is his name. Cyril said he told the guy he thought the care staff were going through his mail and asked if he could have the letters forwarded there. This enabled him to communicate with Stella without her knowing it was him.’

  ‘And what reason did Cyril give for writing a play like that in the first place? Is he claiming he was trying to frame Stella for the crimes he intended to carry out?’

  ‘He said that despite what he had been told growing up, he knew that the murderous impulses he’d been experiencing towards people aligned with the occult were wrong. So he wrote the play as a way of channelling some of the fantasies he had and given how ashamed he was of thinking about such acts he didn’t want to be associated with the play in any way. He auditioned for the main part to try to exorcize his own inner demons, and he got it, but when the play was over, the impulses he’d had before the play were even worse than they had been. That, he said, was when he started planning the murders.’

  ‘I suppose that’s a plausible story,’ said Kitt. ‘Have you got confirmation from the guy who let him use the address that it was really Cyril sending out those letters?’

  ‘We’re going to go and get it today. There’s no phone at the address so we’ll have to go in person. But Kitt, you need to understand something. No forensic evidence was found at Twilight Manor or at Ayleen’s property. They tested every long, sharp item in Bramley’s mansion for the blood and, ironically, given his status as a wannabe vampire, they didn’t find a drop. The chief has ordered Ricci to accept Cyril’s confession as an accomplice. An announcement is going to be made about him being charged in the hope of restoring public faith in the police to solve these murders. You know how desperate they’ve been for a breakthrough on this case. They are not going to turn down a confession from a man whose story checks out. Especially when all the forensics we could ever need was found in his private quarters. It more than passes the threshold for evidence.’

  Kitt sighed and scraped her fingers through the front of her hair. ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re going to Sandersdale to verify Cyril’s story about the friend he has out there. If that’s the point at which his story unravels, it might be enough to get the chief to think twice about his press release. And is highly likely to bring us closer to catching the real killer. We’ve had to release Ayleen but both she and Bramley are being surveyed until Sunday night when the eleven-day window is up. Given the number of times we’ve been led back to the Children of Silvanus during this investigation, I think the answers we’re looking for are most likely to be found in Sandersdale.’

  Twenty-Four

  Kitt tried not to shudder as Halloran’s car passed a sign for Sandersdale village. From what she understood, the property they were on their way to was situated a couple of miles outside the settlement. Which meant that, after a tense three-hour car journey, in the space of just five miles they would find their next clue in their investigation to apprehend the real Vampire Killer.

  In an attempt to distract herself from what might be waiting for them, Kitt stared out of the car window, taking in the rugged view of the dales, marbled green and brown by farm fields yet to be kissed by the summer sun, and being thankful that at least the day was bright and the sky was blue. It took the edge off what would have otherwise been a deeply foreboding journey.

  Grace, who was sitting in the back seat, had been uncharacteristically quiet since they had set off from Whitby three hours ago. She had, of course, insisted on coming along even though Kitt had given her an out. Not travelling well over such hilly terrain, she’d cracked a window for some fresh air, so queasiness might well have been playing a part in her unusual levels of restraint. But perhaps the reality that they were possibly on course to visit a serial killer’s lair was also dawning on her. If the killer had had post rerouted there, who knew what else they might find at the property? Certainly, Grace’s expression was more serious than Kitt could ever remember it being.

  Halloran’s phone buzzed with a message.

  ‘Take a look at that while I’m driving, pet, will you?’ said Halloran.

  Kitt grabbed the phone off the dashboard and scrolled to the inbox. It was a message from Banks.

  ‘Oh no,’ Kitt could barely believe what she was reading.

  Halloran, splitting his concentration
between Kitt and the road, frowned across at her. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the name and address that Cyril gave you for Glen Tucker,’ said Kitt.

  ‘Yes, what about it?’

  ‘Banks has been looking into the property details and in the early eighties it belonged to a Mr Justin Palmer.’

  ‘The leader of the Children of Silvanus?’ said Grace.

  ‘Banks says the property was joint owned by a Melissa Tucker before it was passed on to Glen, her son. Mal . . . if I’m reading this right, Banks seems to think that Glen Tucker’s father was Justin Palmer.’

  At this news Halloran checked his rear-view mirror to make sure nobody was behind them and then slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to an abrupt stop.

  He rubbed his hand over his face and looked at Kitt.

  ‘We’re on our way to a house belonging to the son of Justin Palmer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Glen Tucker, the man Cyril said he was friends with, that’s Palmer’s son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No,’ said Halloran. ‘I can’t take you two there now, knowing that. This could be a trap.’

  ‘But Ricci said she couldn’t give you any more resources,’ said Grace. ‘Everyone’s tied up with other parts of the investigation, keeping an eye on Bramley and Ayleen and all that.’

  ‘Grace is right,’ said Kitt. ‘The alternative to us not coming is either waiting who knows how many hours for what is likely to be very little back-up to arrive, or you going in there alone. I think we can all agree we don’t have time for the former and there’s no way I’m going to agree to the latter. There are three of us. Safety in numbers. We’ve all got our phones with us. If it comes to it and there’s some kind of emergency, I’ll dial 999.’

  Halloran took in a deep breath and accelerated again. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. Kitt and I will approach first. If things escalate or we don’t come out of there in fifteen minutes, Grace, you need to dial for help.’

  ‘But—’ Grace started.

  ‘No arguments on this one, you are our only back-up. If all of us go in there’s nobody to get the distress call out if something goes wrong,’ said Halloran. Kitt noticed his hands clenching the steering wheel tighter than usual. He was scared. And, she had to admit, so was she.

  Everyone was quiet for the remaining two miles of the journey. What was there to say? Nothing that would bring any of them comfort. Kitt had been so preoccupied with the story Ayleen had fed her about the cult that she hadn’t stopped to consider that the killer might not be someone wanting vengeance for what happened there at all. It might be someone trying to continue Justin Palmer’s work – or some twisted version of it. But this time, instead of sacrificing animals to Silvanus, he was sacrificing people.

  ‘I think that’ll be it, based on the GPS,’ Halloran said, pointing at a house situated some way down a long, narrow dirt track.

  He indicated and the car rocked as the wheels hit terrain left uneven by tractor tyres, horse hooves and jagged stones that lay strewn across the path, blown there by the wild dale-side winds.

  If Kitt had not been told who lived at the property, she would have thought it rather quaint. It was one of those houses one often sees out on the dales, made of old brick with small square windows and a solid wooden door for keeping the worst of the winter gales out. She noticed at once, however, that unlike so many of the similar houses she’d seen on day trips, in this case the front garden was terribly overgrown. Kitt imagined there was at least a few months’ growth there and the weeds had been left to run wild.

  ‘Grace, wait here, OK?’ said Kitt, unbuckling her seat belt and opening the car door without waiting for a response.

  ‘And whatever you do, keep all the doors locked, do you hear me?’ Halloran added.

  Grace gave him a nervous nod.

  Satisfied that her assistant was going to, for once, follow instructions, Kitt climbed out of the car and set off down the small path that led up to the front door. At once, she found herself doing up the top button on her coat and tying her scarf a bit tighter. Even with the sun, the surroundings never reached a clement temperature on the dale top at this time of year.

  The path to the house was paved with stone but was overgrown on all sides by the untamed garden. Halloran was right behind Kitt. She glanced back to see him inspecting the grass as they walked. As if he suspected Glen Tucker might jump out on them from a place of hiding.

  Kitt did all she could to put that thought from her mind. She had no idea what to expect from Tucker. How did one live with the fact that their father abandoned them for a different kind of family? One which brought so much pain and suffering to so many? Bramley had said he had gone ‘off grid’ and didn’t communicate with anyone. Certainly, isolating yourself in this part of the dales wouldn’t be difficult. It was miles to the nearest house. When Bramley had first mentioned that Palmer’s son had cut himself off from the world, she had assumed that this might have been out of grief, or fear that one of Palmer’s old disciples might find him. But maybe there was another reason. Maybe this house was really a hideout. One way or another, she was about to find out.

  Kitt knocked on the door and waited a moment.

  No response. Not so much as a creak or a shuffle from inside.

  Halloran knocked this time, heavier and louder than Kitt had before.

  ‘Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,’ said Kitt after a minute.

  ‘But the car’s here,’ said Halloran.

  Kitt shrugged. ‘Maybe he has two cars.’

  Halloran knocked a third time. Then tried the door handle and rattled it. It didn’t budge. ‘Worth a try,’ he said.

  Doing her best to avoid a particularly large thistle, Kitt manoeuvred herself through the grass so she could look in at the nearest window. It was quite dim inside but she could just make out the most striking contours of the room. A Welsh dresser on the right wall full of what looked like small trophies and plaques. A modest bookcase on the left, too small for Kitt’s tastes but certainly big enough to hold a decent number of volumes. There was a sofa near the window and towards the back of the room, Kitt was fairly sure she could make out a table. It was on examining this part of the room that Kitt let out a cry of shock.

  ‘What is it?’ Halloran said, striding over.

  ‘There’s someone in there, I can see him. A silhouette. Sitting in one of the chairs in the dining room. I can’t see his face. But there’s definitely someone there.’

  Halloran knocked on the window. ‘Hello, Mr Tucker,’ he called through the glass. ‘It’s the police. I’d just like to ask you a few questions.’

  The man in the chair didn’t so much as flinch.

  ‘Something’s wrong, Mal. Why isn’t he responding?’

  ‘Let’s try round the back,’ Halloran said, nodding to the side of the building.

  The back garden was as overgrown as the front and with the man inside not responding, Kitt was starting to get a terrible feeling about whoever was sitting at the kitchen table. The figure had made no movement even when they knocked and called.

  And then she smelled it.

  Kitt looked at Halloran and could tell by his expression he could smell it too.

  A smell that was both sweet and sour all at once. The smell of a body, slowly decaying.

  Halloran pressed the handle down on the back door.

  It was open.

  ‘Wait here,’ he murmured.

  ‘I will not,’ Kitt hissed, crossing her arms. ‘If that man’s dead, his killer might still be in there. You can’t go in alone. I’ll let you go first, that’s the best I can offer you.’

  Kitt watched as Halloran made the unfortunate calculation in his head and came to the same conclusion she had: that going inside this building alone was not wise.

  Nodding, he pushe
d the door wide open and waited.

  The smell of decay worsened, and Kitt covered her nose with her arm, trying to fend off the worst of it. The room was icy cold. There was clearly no heating on in the building. She could see her breath in the air, despite the weak April sun doing its best to warm things outside.

  When no immediate sound or movement could be heard from within, Halloran stepped over the threshold into the kitchen and through to the dining room.

  He held Kitt back with his arm as she walked to stand by his side. A gasp rose to her throat when she saw the man she presumed to be Glen Tucker propped up in a chair at his dining room table. As expected, he was long dead. Kitt had never seen a dead body that had been left sitting for so long and tried not to dwell too much on the details. One thing she couldn’t miss, however, was the way in which the man’s head hung limp to one side, revealing two red marks on his neck. The same red marks that had been found on the three other victims of the Vampire Killer.

  Twenty-Five

  ‘The police announcement about Cyril being an accomplice of the Vampire Killer is all over the news,’ said Grace, three hours or so later when she and Kitt were seated back in the car.

  On the discovery of Glen Tucker’s body Halloran had ushered Kitt out of the house at once and called the nearest constabulary for support with conducting an initial search of the property. Ricci wasn’t able to give any resources from York but a dead body found in their jurisdiction at once seized the attention of the most local station which was in the middle of Sandersdale, nearly a ninety-minute drive from Tucker’s residence. As yet, however, Halloran hadn’t had time to come back to the car and report on what all this meant for the case.

  ‘I’m not sure what this discovery really means or if they’ll be announcing anything else as a result,’ said Kitt. ‘It sort of depends on what they find in the house but I’m not convinced that we’re going to have all the information we need in time to help Ruby.’ Kitt had been keeping a careful eye on the position of the sun while waiting to hear more from Halloran. It had already started its descent in the west which meant the day was nearly over and the day after tomorrow the Vampire Killer was due to strike again.