Playing with Bones

by Kate Ellis

  Kate Ellis was born and brought up in Liverpool and studied drama in Manchester. She has worked in teaching, marketing and accountancy and first enjoyed literary success as a winner of the North West Playwrights competition. Keenly interested in medieval history and archaeology, Kate lives in North Cheshire with her husband, Roger, and their two sons.

  Kate Ellis has been twice nominated for the CWA Short Story Dagger, and her novel, The Plague Maiden, was nominated for the Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year in 2005.

  For more information log on to www.kateellis.co.uk

  ALSO BY KATE ELLIS

  Joe Plantagenet series:

  Seeking the Dead

  Wesley Peterson series:

  The Merchant’s House

  The Armada Boy

  An Unhallowed Grave

  The Funeral Boat

  The Bone Garden

  A Painted Doom

  The Skeleton Room

  The Plague Maiden

  A Cursed Inheritance

  The Marriage Hearse

  The Shining Skull

  The Blood Pit

  A Perfect Death

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-12657-6

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  Copyright © 2009 by Kate Ellis

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also By Kate Ellis

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  THE MERCHANT’S HOUSE

  THE ARMADA BOY

  AN UNHALLOWED GRAVE

  For Olly

  CHAPTER 1

  The girl raised her hands in a feeble attempt to save her life.

  Everything was fading now and the old gas lamp loomed in and out of focus as she tried in vain to push away the thing that was gripping her throat.

  Unexpected thoughts ran through her mind as she struggled: that her expensive new shoes would be ruined by scraping against the hard pavement; that her attacker smelled of cheap aftershave. The important events in the girl’s short life didn’t flash before her as she’d expected. Only the irrelevancies. The small details.

  She felt herself losing the fight and, as the cathedral clock struck two, she sank to her knees, her fluttering fingers plucking at the soft silk tightening around her neck.

  Once she’d slumped to the ground like a discarded toy, the killer went to work with the knife, leaving the wound on her small, bare foot glistening like raw meat in the glow of the street lamp. Then slowly, almost lovingly, he placed the doll beside her body, like a parent placing a favourite plaything in a sleeping child’s bed.

  He raised his head to look around the silent close and when he spotted a child’s pale face staring down at him from the upstairs window, her eyes meeting his in silent accusation, his body began to shake.

  Joe Plantagenet had had a restless night and at six in the morning, with the light peeping through the blinds, he’d decided to get up and have an early breakfast of croissants and coffee. He had bought the croissants as a treat for himself because Maddy was away. But somehow they didn’t make him feel any better.

  Suddenly the telephone on the sideboard shattered the drowsy silence. Joe picked it up and fumbled for the button that would stop its insistent noise. A glance at the clock told him it was six forty-five and he knew there was only one reason why someone would ring him so early. It was the hour for bad news.

  He heard DS Sunny Porter’s voice on the other end of the line, annoyingly alert. Perhaps he was a naturally early riser, Joe thought as he drained his coffee cup.

  It was too early in the day for pleasantries and he was grateful when Sunny came straight to the point. ‘Body’s been found in Singmass Close off Gallowgate, sir. Young woman. Milkman found her lying on the pavement – shock made him drop two bottles of semi-skimmed. Doc says it looks like strangulation but she won’t commit herself till the post-mortem.’

  Joe suddenly felt wide awake. ‘She never does. Any ID?’

  ‘Yeah. Her handbag was found under her body so we can rule out a mugging gone wrong. According to a young person’s ID card she’s a Karen Strange … address in Bacombe.’

  Joe sighed and closed his eyes. His shoulder had begun to ache. The site of the gunshot wound he’d sustained in Liverpool nine years before – when, as a new DC, he’d been summoned with his sergeant, Kevin Hennessy, to a routine job which turned out to be anything but – still gave him trouble, especially at times of stress. Kevin had been fatally wounded but Joe had survived feeling a confusing mix of guilt and gratitude. ‘How old is … was …’

  ‘Nowt but a lass … about eighteen or thereabouts. Terrible,’ Sunny added quietly. There were many in CID who thought Sunny Porter was as hard as nails. But, after working with him for five years, Joe knew otherwise.

  Joe glanced at the empty kitchen stool by his side. Maddy was down in London. But she hadn’t stayed overnight at his flat for the past fortnight – not since the night she had bared her soul to him, offered the ultimate commitment. The night he’d taken her hands in his and told her as gently as he could that he didn’t feel ready for marriage. After all, they’d been together for less than a year, having met when Joe had saved the life of her colleague at the Archaeology Centre. Although Joe had great affection for Maddy, there were times when he’d felt that wasn’t enough – that the spark that had been there with his wife Kaitlin who’d died so soon after their marriage, was missing. At the age of twenty-two Joe had given up his calling to the priesthood for Kaitlin; and he’d have given his life for her. Perhaps he’d always known in his heart that Maddy couldn’t take her place.

  A few days after Joe had let her down gently, Maddy had dropped her bombshell – the irresistible job in London, too good an opportunity to miss. She had travelled down by train yesterday for the interview and was staying with old university friends for a few days. When he’d seen her off at the station, he had been careful not to offer an opinion on her possible move. It was her decision, after all. But he’d found her departure unsettling and the thought of it nagged away in the back of his mind like a dull headache. Perhaps the old song was right – you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

  He heard Sunny’s voice again. ‘You still there, sir?’

  Joe scratched his head. ‘Sorry, Sunny. I suppose I’m needed at the crime scene,’ he said. He still wasn’t dressed but perhaps a shower would wake him up.

  Sunny’s reply was predictable. Detective Ins
pector Plantagenet was needed ASAP. It was obviously murder and the wheels had already been set in motion. Madam – as Sunny habitually called DCI Emily Thwaite behind her back – had issued her orders. And Emily wasn’t a woman who took no for an answer.

  Joe slid off the stool, ready to make for the bathroom. But just as he was about to put the phone down, Sunny spoke again.

  ‘It’s a strange one, this. Really weird.’

  Something in Sunny’s voice made Joe’s heart beat a little faster. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, there was this doll beside the body and …’

  ‘And what?’ Joe wished he’d get to the point.

  ‘You’ll have to see for yourself, boss. But it isn’t nice.’

  Joe had never expected that a murder would be. He hurried to the bathroom, impatient to discover what Sunny meant.

  The unhappy milkman had reported his gruesome find at six that morning and DCI Emily Thwaite felt as though she’d been on the phone ever since, the receiver surgically attached to her ear.

  The last thing she needed was a high-profile murder on her patch. The previous afternoon the child killer, Gordon Pledge, had escaped from a prison van while he was being transferred from Wakefield prison to Full Sutton and the hunt for him was on. Top priority. And now this. A dead girl in the middle of Eborby. What else could go wrong?

  She sipped the tea her husband, Jeff, had made and tried to consume a slice of toast in between briefing her colleagues and making sure Daniel, her youngest, had everything he needed for his Saturday morning swimming lesson. After a short-lived crisis concerning a pair of missing swimming trunks, Emily looked at her watch. The SOCOs were over in Singmass Close going about their business. However, as senior investigating officer, she knew that she should be there on the scene, keeping her eye on things.

  She’d already dispatched someone to visit the dead girl’s address but she wanted to speak to the people who knew Karen Strange as a matter of urgency. She needed to get to know the victim. She needed to know her habits, her thoughts, her loves and her hates. And she needed to know who had hated – or loved – Karen enough to kill her: Emily knew from experience that twisted love could lead to murder, just as loathing could.

  Emily looked at Jeff. Although he was starting to show the inevitable signs of age – the thickening of the waist and the deepening lines – he was tall, fair and still good-looking enough to be the object of the occasional teenage crush amongst his female pupils at the high school where he taught history. She didn’t have to issue him with his orders. He was used to the routine by now. When the call had come in he’d taken charge of the children and, as it was Saturday, he knew he had to drop Sarah at ballet after taking the boys to the swimming baths.

  She knew that she should be thankful that Jeff supported her in her career. A lot of men she knew wouldn’t be so understanding. It was a source of regret that she never seemed to have the time these days to find the right words to tell him how much she appreciated him, and most nights she arrived home exhausted, her brain buzzing with the day’s frantic business. But one day, when she had a moment, they’d have some quality time – how she hated that expression – together. But not yet. She had a murderer to take off the streets. And from the sound of it, this was no domestic or a fight at closing time. This one sounded odd.

  She checked her reflection in the hall mirror and ran a brush through her unruly fair curls. She had a pretty, freckled face with a slightly turned-up nose and, if it wasn’t for her little weight problem – brought about by too much snacking on the move – she reckoned that she wouldn’t be bad for her age. But dieting was for those with time on their hands.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a small voice. ‘Mummy.’

  Emily looked round. Her daughter, Sarah, was standing at the bottom of the stairs in her Forever Friends pyjamas. At six years old, Sarah had always been as boisterous as her two brothers, but over the past couple of weeks she’d seemed quiet, preoccupied.

  ‘What is it, love?’ she asked as she picked up her briefcase.

  ‘Grizelda wants to know where you’re going.’

  ‘Tell her I’ve got to go to work. I’ve got to catch some naughty people and lock them up. Have a good time at ballet, won’t you, love.’ She bent down to give the little girl a kiss.

  ‘Kiss Grizelda,’ Sarah ordered imperiously.

  Emily kissed the air a couple of feet from Sarah’s face. The imaginary friend phase probably wouldn’t last long and in the meantime, there was no harm in going along with it. It probably meant that Sarah was imaginative, she thought with a passing frisson of maternal pride.

  But she knew she couldn’t linger. She blew Sarah a kiss and hurried out to the car. First stop the crime scene. Second, the victim’s family. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to either.

  It was too early for heavy traffic so the journey into the city centre only took ten minutes. When Emily arrived at the insignificant-looking archway leading from Gallowgate onto Singmass Close, she saw blue-striped crime scene tape festooned across the entrance. Two elderly women with shopping trolleys were standing there, craning their necks to see what was going on. Emily could have told them not to bother – the body would already be screened off. Ignoring the double yellow lines, she parked up on the pavement behind a patrol car.

  Singmass Close itself lay behind a small arch, little more than a gap between an Italian restaurant and a charity shop, opening onto a wide alley with medieval stone walls to the right. To the left stood a plain Georgian building swathed in scaffolding – once a ragged school for an orphanage, it was in the process of being converted into offices fit for twenty-first-century business. Beyond this was a close of tasteful modern townhouses constructed around a central courtyard, built in the 1980s on the site of a maze of dank and crumbling slums. Until the area’s phoenix-like renaissance, Singmass Close and its surrounding maze of streets and alleyways had been a place of darkness, tucked away like a shameful secret at the rear of Eborby’s magnificent cathedral. Now a blanket of gentility had been flung across the Close. It had shed its dark past and changed beyond recognition.

  She gave the uniformed constable on guard a brisk smile as he lifted the tape to allow her through. As she struggled into the set of paper overalls she’d been handed, her eyes searched the close for a familiar face.

  Eventually she spotted Joe Plantagenet standing by the yellow-and-white tent that concealed the body. Like her, he wore a disposable suit but she was sure that it looked better on him than it did on her. He was an inch or so shorter than her husband, Jeff, with longish dark hair, freckles, a nose that was perhaps a little too big and bright-blue eyes which looked as though they could see into your soul. His expression was serious. Joe was never one for the gallows humour that helped some of their colleagues get through the day.

  She walked over to join him – he looked up and gave her a sad smile. ‘Hi, boss.’ His voice was deep with a trace of a Liverpool accent.

  ‘So what is this place?’ Emily asked. As she’d only transferred to Eborby from Leeds less than a year before, she was still getting to know the city.

  ‘It’s called Singmass Close because the Vicars Choral who lived here used to sing mass at the cathedral when the canons couldn’t be bothered.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ she said, trying to sound interested. She could have done without the history lesson but she knew Joe was into that sort of thing. His girlfriend, Maddy, worked at the Archaeology Centre so the interest had probably rubbed off.

  ‘So what have we got? I take it you’ve had a look?’

  ‘Only a quick peep. The doc’s in there doing her bit. It’s a strange one.’

  Emily saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Something about this murder had disturbed him. Like any police officer, Joe was used to violent death and she wondered what was so different about this one.

  ‘Has the doc given her verdict yet?’

  ‘Probably strangulation – some kind of ligatu
re – but there’s no sign of the murder weapon so, presumably, the killer took it away with him.’ Joe shifted from foot to foot as though he wanted the business over and done with.

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Two o’clock in the morning, give or take an hour. Dr Sharpe won’t commit herself before …’

  ‘The post mortem. Why is that woman always so bloody cautious? You OK, Joe? You look tired.’

  Joe gave his boss a small smile. ‘Didn’t sleep too well, that’s all.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘No news of Gordon Pledge?’

  Emily shook her head. ‘He can’t have got far. All patrols are on the lookout for him and uniform are checking out his known haunts.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I suppose we’d better have a look at this body,’ she said with determination. She’d found from bitter experience that professional detachment was the only way to deal with such things.

  She began to walk towards the tent, some of the SOCOs acknowledging her with a nod as she made her regal progress. She turned her head and saw that Joe was following a few paces behind like a mourner in a solemn procession and she heard his words echoing in her head. ‘It’s a strange one.’

  In a matter of seconds, she’d see for herself what he meant.

  At Eborby’s busy railway station, Michele Carden examined the contents of her purse. Fifty-five quid. There was no way she’d get as far as London. That had been the plan, of course, but Michele’s plans had a habit of crashing to the ground … like the time she’d tried to get to the Leeds Festival and the tickets she’d bought from a lad at school had turned out to be fakes.

  She put her purse back in her pocket, cursing the price of rail travel and settled back on the uncomfortable plastic seat in the bustling station café, her rucksack by her feet, looking round as though she was waiting for someone. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to approach her and start asking questions.

  She’d arrived on the Thirsk train half an hour ago and ordered a diet Coke, which she drunk slowly, knowing she had to make it last. It would never do for anyone to guess that she hadn’t a clue what her next move was going to be.