by Kate Ellis
Michele had dressed with care as usual. At five foot eleven with glossy dark hair and a clear skin which was the envy of her classmates, she knew she looked good in the clothes she had collected during her Saturday trips to Eborby when she would patrol the racks of Top Shop in search of the latest look. She wished she had a magazine to read but she hadn’t thought to bring one and buying one from the station bookstall would eat into her precious escape fund.
She took another look in her purse as though she hoped the notes would have bred and multiplied since it had last been opened. But no matter how often she counted, the sum was still the same. The plan had been London but now necessity made her toy with other options. Leeds was a possibility. But Leeds was a bit too close for comfort.
She took her mobile from her pocket. A text had just come in from Laura. WHERE RU? She was about to reply but then she had second thoughts. Laura might talk. And careless talk cost freedom.
She switched the phone off. If she was really serious about making her bid for freedom, she’d have to break with the past – break with her boring, oppressive school and her sad family and friends with their small-town minds. She was aiming higher. Sod Leeds … Plan A was back in operation. She was going to London and she was going to make it big.
If the train was too expensive, there were alternatives. Eborby’s coach station wasn’t far away. And there was always the cheapest form of transport of all … hitching.
She had just finished her Coke, draining the can of every last drop to get her money’s worth, and she needed the loo. Then she’d make for the coach station to see how often the London coaches ran. As she picked up her ruck-sack and rose from her seat, she heard a voice.
‘Excuse me.’
Michele looked round. A middle-aged woman was standing by the table. Michelle had noticed her arriving ten minutes before, sipping a latte at a table at the far side of the café. She was probably ten years older than Michele’s own mother but she was dressed far more expensively. The little suit with the carefully arranged scarf suggested Paris, as did the perfume and the immaculate make-up. Chanel … that pink tweed suit was definitely Chanel. The woman was slim with jet-black hair cut in a glossy bob. Her mouth turned down slightly at the corners and she didn’t look particularly friendly … but the well-dressed and immaculately groomed rarely do.
Michele hugged her rucksack close, suddenly wary. This woman could represent authority. She could be someone who would bring her dreams to a sharp halt there and then. But as she edged away, the woman smiled – a businesslike smile rather than a warm one.
‘I hope you don’t mind my approaching you like this but my name is Sylvia Palmer. I run a model agency in Leeds. Perhaps you’ve heard of it … Palmer’s Models.’
All Michele’s wariness suddenly disappeared. Had she heard of Palmer’s Models? Should she have heard of Palmer’s Models? Perhaps she should have done – after all, wasn’t modelling her life’s ambition? Somehow she had taken it for granted that everything glamorous went on in London. But maybe she could get what she wanted nearer home. Her heart was beating fast as Sylvia Palmer looked her up and down and offered her a manicured hand, which Michele shook limply.
‘Do say if you’re not interested but I really think you’re the type of girl we’re looking for. Have you ever done any modelling?’
Michele flicked her hair off her face self-consciously. This was a dream come true. ‘Er, no … but I’ve always wanted to … I mean …’
‘You’ll need a portfolio of photographs, but my agency can arrange all that … free of charge, of course. We take our commission when you get work.’
‘Er … yeah. Great.’ Michele shifted from foot to foot. What do you say when somebody comes up out of the blue in a station café and offers you all the riches of the world?
Sylvia Palmer looked at her watch. ‘Look, have you any plans for this afternoon? Only one of our top photographers is doing a shoot at a place out in the country in a couple of days’ time and I need someone to help get everything ready. So if you’re free …’
Had Michele any plans? Silly question. The only plan Michele had that day was the pursuit of fame and fortune. And it looked as if those two elusive things had just come right up to her and said hello. ‘Yeah great,’ she said, lost for anything more eloquent.
‘My car’s outside. We’ll go out the back way, shall we? I’ll lead the way.’
Michele Carden didn’t need asking twice. As the woman hurried ahead, she swung her rucksack onto her back and followed several yards behind.
Joe thanked the sergeant who lifted the flap of the tent to let them in, making a note of their arrival on his clipboard. His face was serious. Joe thought he looked like a man who’d had a shock.
Inside the tent, a small young woman with dark-brown curly hair was kneeling on the ground, bent over the corpse. She looked up and gave him a shy smile, her eyes flicking towards Emily who was standing by his side. Joe felt a little embarrassed as he always did when he recalled Dr Sally Sharpe’s drunken confidences at the CID party last Christmas. She had kissed him with alcohol-fuelled passion and told him she fancied him. Then she’d offered to take him back to her flat but he’d declined her offer tactfully, assuming that it was the wine talking. Sally probably didn’t remember. At least he hoped she didn’t.
‘Hi Sal,’ he said casually. ‘What can you tell us?’
Sally placed a swab carefully in a screw-top jar and sat back on her heels. ‘Like I told you before, I reckon she died in the early hours of the morning between one and three but I might be able to tell you more when I get her on the slab. And she was strangled … some sort of ligature.’
‘Any sign of sexual assault?’ he asked, glancing at Emily who was staring down at the body, her plump, pretty face solemn.
‘Not that I can see.’
Joe looked down at the dead girl. Her pale blonde hair was tugged back into a pony tail and her freckles were half veiled by a layer of foundation. Her eye shadow was heavily applied and she still retained a trace of scarlet on her lips. All this and the skimpy mini skirt and plunging neckline told him that she’d been for a night on the town. And in Eborby there were only a handful of places where you could paint the town red. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out which of these Karen Strange had been to. Unless he was wrong … unless the skimpy clothing was being worn for professional reasons.
‘Any chance she was on the game?’ Emily asked quietly, as though she’d read his thoughts.
It was something Joe hadn’t liked to consider – but he supposed the question had to be asked. ‘I had a word with Jamilla before,’ he said. ‘She’s been to break the news to the family. The victim lived at the address with her parents so I wouldn’t have said so. All girls seem to dress like that for a night out, don’t they?’
Emily nodded sadly. She was a mother and Joe guessed that the thought of any daughter of hers flaunting her assets like that was making her uncomfortable.
Sally shifted a little so they could get a better view. ‘There’s something else you should see.’ She lifted the dead girl’s left foot gently. It was bare and stained with dried blood. ‘The big toe’s missing. Freshly severed with some sort of sharp knife I’d say. There’s not that much blood around so I’m sure it was done post mortem.’
‘I understand her handbag was found with her,’ said Joe.
Sally nodded towards a large plastic evidence bag containing a small, new-looking jewelled handbag with a chain strap. ‘It was underneath the body so she probably fell on it. Her purse and her mobile haven’t been touched and apart from her make-up, there’s a packet of condoms and her ID card.’
She passed the bag to Joe who peered through the shroud of plastic at the young persons’ ID card. The fuzzy, washed-out photo of the blonde girl looked quite unlike the corpse on the ground. But he knew from experience that people can look quite different once the spirit that makes them who they are has departed. He’d once seen a picture of the dead Maril
yn Monroe taken in the morgue which bore little resemblance to the vibrant woman on the cinema screen.
Sally’s voice interrupted his musings on mortality. ‘Have you seen this?’ She pointed to another bag.
He edged his way round the body slowly and picked it up. As a stared at it, a pair of eyes stared back. Glass eyes, cold, multifaceted blue, in a pale, painted face. Porcelain with rosebud lips, pink-tinted cheeks and sandy curls. He moved the doll and the staring eyes closed as if the thing was dead. Then as he turned it upright it snapped back to life again, studying him through thick lashes.
He handed the bag to Emily. ‘
It was found beside the body,’ said Sally. ‘Weird. Unless she was a doll collector and she was taking it home. But …’
He watched as Emily studied the doll. It was about two feet tall with a face that was at the same time both sweet and malevolent. It was dressed in a white smock, yellowed with age, and Emily fumbled with the plastic until she had a clear view of the left foot. As she stared, it took her a few seconds to realise the significance of what she was seeing. ‘The toes have been hacked off,’ she said, puzzled.
‘And it looks like a fresh break,’ said Sally. She hesitated. ‘If someone’s tried to mutilate the doll like the corpse, whoever it is must be seriously weird.’ She studied the doll again. ‘This looks like an antique,’ she said after a few moments. ‘Not something you’d just leave lying around in the street.’
Joe looked at Emily. She was listening intently. ‘Where exactly was it found?’ she asked.
Sally pointed to the spot. ‘It looks as though it was put there deliberately. Maybe part of the killer’s ritual.’ She frowned. ‘What do you think it means?’
Joe gave an apologetic shrug. ‘No idea.’
Emily shook her head. Like Joe, it seemed, she hadn’t a clue. Yet. But Joe knew from his months of working with her that she was an optimist by nature and her mind was probably beginning to plan all the possible lines of enquiry. It was just a matter of where to start.
As Sally began to put her things away in her case, Joe knelt on the ground by the dead girl and looked at her closely before closing his eyes and whispering a small, unobtrusive prayer for the dead. He thought that someone should treat the poor girl lying dead on the paving stones as a human being and put in a good word for her soul. When he’d finished, he looked up. Sally was preoccupied but he saw that Emily was watching him. She gave him a brief, flickering smile before averting her eyes.
‘What about house to house?’ Emily asked as they left the confines of the tent.
‘Sunny’s organising that.’ Joe took a deep breath. There were some things – unpleasant things – that you can only put off for so long before they had to be faced. ‘We’d better go and have a word with the parents. You’ll come with me?’
Emily answered in the affirmative and they began to walk. There was drizzle in the air but it wasn’t cold for late October. As they were about to leave the close, Joe took a last look around. Several of the little houses, he noticed, had windows overlooking the scene of Karen Strange’s death. If the residents were members of Neighbourhood Watch who suffered from insomnia they could have the case wrapped up within twenty-four hours. But things were rarely that straightforward.
He was about to follow Emily to Gallowgate when he glanced up at the end house and saw something that made him catch his breath. Sitting there in a small upstairs window, watching the scene below, was a doll with a pale porcelain face and smirking rosebud lips.
The Doll Strangler reached over to switch off the radio. The switch was sticky – marmalade probably, hardened over several days. He licked it off his finger.
The body of a female had been found early that morning in Singmass Close. The police were going to release more details later. The name of the place brought it all back. It was fifty years ago but the memory was just as vivid as if it had happened that morning.
When he closed his eyes tight he could almost hear the sound of her heels on the cobbles. Click click click. She was getting nearer.
Click click click. How fast she walked. She would have been nervous walking at night though a place like Singmass Close with its huddled houses and its dark shadows.
Click click click. Here she was. Come on, he thought as he clenched his fist, reliving every moment, every emotion. Come closer. He felt the soft silk of the stocking in his hand. And the knife was there – the knife that would stop the dancing.
He’d carried the doll in the holdall. The doll he had mutilated, imagining what he would do to the woman coming towards him. With his eyes closed he could see her now in the yellow-grey mist sent up by forty thousand smoking chimneys. She was turning the corner and he could see her under the dim street light, tottering across the cobbles on her high heels. He recalled how he’d stepped back into the shadows and pressed his body against the wall, his heart thumping, almost feeling faint with anticipation. Click click click. The timing had to be right.
She hadn’t been able to see him but he could see her. He had almost smelt her fear beneath the waft of cheap scent. So near now.
This was it. With his eyes still shut, he stretched out his stiff arms, imagining the softness of the silk stocking between his hands. But then the arms dropped to his side. Something was wrong. The ragged child was there again watching, mocking. Spoiling his fantasy. He wished he could kill her. He wished he could stop the giggles and the taunts.
But he wasn’t sure how you went about killing a ghost.
CHAPTER 2
Karen Strange’s parents lived in a sprawling Victorian villa in the tree-lined suburb of Bacombe. The house stood on the main road just a mile from the city centre. If you continued west, you would reach the city walls and if you continued east, you’d soon meet open country.
Joe loved Eborby’s rich history. His late father’s family had lived in Eborby for generations and Joe had grown up with tales of how he was descended from an illegitimate child of Richard III, who’d been Eborby’s local hero back in the late fifteenth century. Joe had no idea whether this was true or not but his father had believed it, even though he’d allowed himself to be lured from his native city by Joe’s Liverpudlian mother. As a result, Joe had been Liverpudlian born and bred and, after his abortive year at the seminary, he had joined Merseyside police, still with the fire of idealism in his eyes, thinking he could make the world a better place. But after Kevin’s death he had needed to escape the bad memories, so he had transferred to Eborby because he had roots there – and in Eborby, roots ran deep.
He studied Emily’s face as they got out of the car. She looked serious and the fine lines around her eyes seemed deeply etched beneath a layer of make-up. She hadn’t said much during the journey. But then he hadn’t felt much like talking either.
‘This is it,’ she said. ‘Nice place.’
Joe made noises of agreement. The Stranges’ house had a glossy black front door, pristine white paintwork, expensive curtains at the windows and colourful tubs of flowers flanking the entrance. The young girl in her tawdry clubbing clothes didn’t seem to belong in these elegant surroundings. But perhaps that was the point she’d been making.
‘Here goes.’ Emily took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
Jamilla had arranged for a policewoman to stay with the Stranges – family liaison – and it was she who opened the door. She was a well built young woman with straight dark hair and an expression of studied sympathy that Joe usually associated with funeral directors. As she admitted them she didn’t smile. There was little to smile about.
‘Mr and Mrs Strange are called Vince and Barbara,’ she whispered. ‘They’re in the lounge. They seem to be taking it quite well,’
Joe found this hard to believe. It was more likely that they were too stunned to speak or that they were adept at hiding their emotions in front of strangers.
Emily nudged his arm. He knew that she would leave him to do most of the talking. She reckoned he was good at that sort of
thing. He himself wasn’t so sure.
They followed the young policewoman into an elegant lounge with beige furnishings of expensive simplicity and an impressive original fireplace. There was money here, Joe thought to himself. And taste – in his experience, the two things didn’t always go together.
Vince and Barbara Strange sat on separate armchairs, avoiding each other’s eyes. Vince was a big man, handsome in a rugged sort of way, and his wife was a stick-thin blonde in tight jeans. It was only the lines on her face that betrayed her age. Seen from behind she could have passed for a teenager.
Joe arranged his features into a mask of sympathy. ‘I’m DI Joe Plantagenet and this is DCI Emily Thwaite. We realise it’s a very painful time for you …’
‘You want us to identify her, is that it?’ It was Barbara Strange who spoke. Her voice was unemotional but Joe assumed that if she let the mask crack, she’d probably break down completely.
Joe was tempted to tell the woman to let go; to have a good cry if she wanted. But that would hardly help the investigation so he returned to the matter in hand. ‘I’m afraid we will need a formal identification,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. And we have to ask you some questions.’ He looked at Vince who seemed stunned, like a wild creature caught in car headlights.
‘Are you feeling up to talking, Mr Strange?’ Emily asked.
Vince Strange looked up at her. ‘We’d better get it over with. And if it helps you catch the bastard who killed her …’ The words were said half-heartedly, without vehemence. As though he was just going through the motions.
Joe asked their permission to sit and Barbara answered with a vague wave of her hand. They could do what the hell they liked. Karen was dead and nothing mattered any more.
‘Have you any other children?’ Joe asked, dreading the answer. If Karen was the only one … the thought was almost unbearable.
‘Our son’s at the university here.’
