Playing with Bones

by Kate Ellis

  ‘Posh address,’ said Emily. ‘If the mother’s divorced she must have got a bloody big settlement. Big house and kid at private school. So there was no sign of the doting mummy? Mind you, the girl’s eighteen. Doting mummies aren’t exactly appreciated at that age. Anything else come in, Sunny?’

  ‘Nothing yet, ma’am. Let’s just hope we get something from the house to house.’

  ‘Any sign of Gordon Pledge yet?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Bloody private security firms,’ Sunny muttered. ‘Couldn’t trust ’em to organise a prayer meeting in a nunnery. Man kills a little lass and they allow him out of the prison van ’cause he says he feels a bit sick.’

  The killer of twelve-year-old Francesca Putney had escaped across fields and the men paid to guard him had been too idle or unfit to pursue him so they’d called in the police. As yet there’d been no sign of Pledge but Joe was certain he’d turn up sooner or later. Besides, that was really uniform’s problem.

  ‘So it looks like Natalie Parkes is our dead girl,’ Sunny said before taking a bite of cake.

  ‘We saw a photograph,’ said Joe, remembering the image of the attractive young woman, so full of life. ‘It’s her all right. I wondered whether to ask Karen to do the identification …’

  Sunny nodded with approval. ‘Why not?’ ‘I don’t like the idea of getting a teenage girl to look at something like that,’ said Joe quickly.

  ‘If you ask me, Karen Strange is a hard little bitch.’ Joe saw Emily press her lips together with disapproval.

  Joe said nothing. Emily could well be right but he had a sneaking suspicion that Karen’s toughness was a shell hiding the vulnerability beneath. The officer sent to Natalie’s address had put a note through the door asking the family to contact the police urgently so it was possible that the mother would arrive home and contact them before the dilemma arose.

  ‘What do you make of the doll?’ Joe asked. He noticed Sunny staring at him, suddenly interested.

  ‘God knows,’ said Emily.

  Joe looked round the incident room. It was buzzing like a bee hive with officers making phone calls and typing into computers. He raised his voice. ‘Have any of the search teams found the girl’s missing toe yet?’

  There was a mass shaking of heads. The missing toe hadn’t turned up anywhere near the body. Which probably meant the worst. The killer had taken it as some sort of macabre trophy.

  ‘I’ll try Natalie’s home number again,’ said Joe, taking his mobile phone from his pocket. But there was still no answer. However, as soon as he’d given up, the phone on Sunny’s desk rang.

  After a brief conversation, Sunny looked up at Joe. ‘There’s someone down at the front desk. Says his name’s Will Parkes. Says he’s Natalie’s brother and he’s got your note.’

  Joe began to make for the door and Emily followed. Perhaps this time they’d get somewhere.

  DC Jamilla Dal looked up at the window. The doll was still there, staring down at her. After what they’d found down there in the close below, it gave her the creeps. All ten of the little houses round the close had been visited and the residents they’d spoken to had all been helpful, expressing appropriate shock.

  However, there were still some blanks on Jamilla’s list. The young couple at number two were away on holiday and the man at number ten was abroad on business. And when Jamilla had called at number six there’d been no answer, even though she had the impression that someone was at home.

  She tried the house again but there was still no reply. But as she gave up and walked away, she had a strong feeling that she was being watched so she swung round quickly, a thrill of fear running through her body. And as she turned, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, a slight shift of light behind one of number six’s net curtains. Someone was playing games. Or avoiding talking to the police, which was worse.

  She tried the doorbell again, keeping her finger pressed on it, long and insistent, but there was still no answer. There was nothing for it: she’d have to give up for now. But she’d be back.

  Michele Carden’s head was still spinning. She was lying on a bed. A narrow single bed with an iron frame and a lumpy mattress. When she shifted she could hear the springs groaning beneath her.

  She was in a small bedroom with old-fashioned floral wallpaper and a sloping ceiling. And her head ached. She opened her mouth and tried to shout but no sound came out. Perhaps it was because her mouth was dry, parched. When she attempted to sit up she flopped back down again and felt tears welling in her eyes.

  There was no sign of Sylvia Palmer. She was alone.

  CHAPTER 3

  Joe reckoned Will Parkes needed a sympathetic shoulder to cry on after identifying the body of his only sister but no members of his immediate family seemed willing or able to provide one. He had an uncle – a London barrister – who made the right sort of noises when Will called to break the news but he said he was far too busy to come up to Yorkshire and offer his nephew any support. This, as far as Joe could see, seemed to be a recurring theme in Will Parkes’s life – and probably that of his sister.

  Will had cried when he’d identified his sister in the mortuary and Joe couldn’t help feeling sorry for the young man. His own family might not have had much in the way of money but at least they would have been there for each other in a time of crisis.

  Will had provided him with nuggets of information about Natalie’s life. When their parents had divorced five years ago their father had taken himself off to the States to run the New York office of a major British bank. He kept enough money flowing to provide them with a fairly lavish lifestyle but, apart from that, he had chosen to sever all contact with his ex-wife and children. Their mother, he said, was somewhere in the South of France with a fashion photographer called Thierry.

  Will told Joe sadly that, as he was five years older than Natalie, they had never been close and she’d never confided in him about her private life. But she was still his sister … his own flesh and blood.

  While Joe questioned him gently, Emily sat silently by his side, listening for lies and inconsistencies. But as far as he could see, there were none. Will Parkes knew nothing of his sister’s death, Joe was sure of that, and he had the impression that Natalie had ensured that her big brother had known very little about her life. They’d lived in the same house but in different worlds.

  There was no mention of dolls and severed toes during the interview. There were some things the police liked to keep to themselves so that any false confessions could be filtered out. And besides, Joe thought the information might distress Will unnecessarily while the shock of Natalie’s death was still raw. Emily agreed and as soon as they returned to the incident room, she ordered the team to dig out any recent cases anywhere in the country that showed any similarities, however tenuous.

  If the killer of Natalie Parkes had struck before, they needed to know.

  A fine birthday it was turning out to be for DS Sunny Porter. It was Saturday and his wife, Pauline, had booked a table for that evening at the local Indian – near enough to walk so the birthday boy could enjoy a drink or two. But with the murder, a celebration was out of the question. He’d be working late and some things couldn’t be helped. That was just how it was and Pauline rarely complained.

  Sunny glanced at his watch. With this silly girl – he could tell she was silly by the sort of clothes she was wearing – getting herself murdered, he could be here all night if madam had her way.

  He looked at the pile of witness statements on his desk and sighed. It seemed that the residents of Singmass Close had all been fast asleep in their beds at the time the girl died, which was hardly surprising considering that the doctor had estimated the time of death to be around two in the morning. She might as well have died in the middle of nowhere rather than in the centre of a city, he thought as he opened his desk drawer in search of a pen that worked.

  When the drawer was open he saw a parcel lying there, inexpertly wrapped in orange paper d
ecorated with green bottles … his elder son Craig’s little joke. It had been shoved into his hand that morning with a gruff ‘Happy birthday, Dad. I saw this and thought of you.’ And with everything that had gone on that day he’d forgotten about it till now.

  He reached into the drawer and felt the package. Definitely a book. Sunny had never really been the reading type so he wondered why Craig had considered the gift so appropriate. Curious, he looked round. Nobody was watching so he began to tear at the wrapping. And as the title of the book was revealed, he smiled to himself. Foul Murders and Dark Deeds in Eborby. It didn’t occur to Sunny that the present might be a pointed reminder that he spent more time on Eborby’s dark deeds than he did on his family. Sunny was just pleased that his lad had chosen something fitting.

  After another furtive check to make sure that he wasn’t being observed, he began to flick through the pages until one chapter heading caught his attention. ‘The Doll Strangler of Singmass Close’.

  Sunny fetched himself a tea from the machine and settled down to read. After all, he deserved a break.

  Michele had tried the door but it was locked.

  Sometimes she’d hear footsteps outside the room, footsteps that approached, stopped, then retreated again. And distant, muffled voices, like faint sounds heard through water. She didn’t know whether not being alone frightened her more than abandonment. Where was Sylvia, the woman who’d brought her here? Had it been a trick? She’d read about the Wests … seen films like The Silence of the Lambs. And her imagination supplied any number of horrific scenarios.

  Michele needed the toilet. She had aspired to the highest echelons of the fashion industry, to a life of pristine glamour, and the last thing she wanted was to wet herself. The indignity would be too much to bear on top of everything else.

  She began to cry. Heart-rending sobs. She wanted to be back home. She wanted her mother.

  The footsteps were approaching again, getting nearer. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and cowered against the iron headboard as the door opened with a loud creak.

  Emily looked at her watch. Four o’clock and not a chance of getting home in the foreseeable future. Jeff didn’t seem to mind being landed with the kids on a Saturday … although she sometimes feared that one day his tolerance would snap. She hoped he wasn’t encouraging Sarah’s obsession with this imaginary friend of hers. But she told herself it was nothing to worry about – just a phase like so many others. She yawned suddenly, overwhelmed by tiredness. But as Joe entered her office after giving a token perfunctory knock, she straightened her back and assumed an alert expression.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked. She saw that he was looking into her eyes and she suddenly felt self-conscious.

  ‘Course I am.’ Joe was a hard man to fool and she wasn’t sure that she could manage it. ‘Any word on that Gordon Pledge yet?’

  Joe shook his head. Emily knew that Pledge could be miles away by now so he turned her thoughts to more pressing matters, leaving uniform to get on with their job. ‘Any luck with the contents of Natalie Parkes’s bag?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Apart from a tiny pink mobile phone all Natalie’s bag had contained was her student ID card, a purse containing a ten-pound note and some loose change, a hairbrush and a well-stuffed make-up bag. The phone was now with one of the team and, with any luck it would tell them everyone the victim was in contact with. And, if fortune was really smiling on them, her killer’s name might be there on the list.

  ‘I’ve sent someone over to bring Brett Bluit in for a chat,’ said Emily. ‘I just hope he hasn’t got awkward parents. I’ve suggested he’s taken to the interview room as soon as he’s brought in. And then we can leave him for around twenty minutes to stew. Soften him up nicely.’

  She saw that Joe was about to say something when he put his hand up to his shoulder. She could tell that he was in pain but he was trying hard to conceal it.

  ‘Playing up again?’

  He managed a brave smile. ‘It sometimes happens when it’s going to rain. I could make a fortune forecasting the weather. Who needs the Met Office, eh?’ Emily could tell that his smile was forced as he slumped down in the seat opposite her.

  There was a knock on the door, a bold rap. Emily shouted ‘come in’ and the door burst open. Sunny Porter was standing there waving a thin paperback book around in an excited manner, an eager look on his weather-beaten face.

  ‘Ma’am, have a look at this.’ He almost ran over to Emily’s desk and deposited the book open in front of her. Emily saw the chapter heading – ‘The Doll Strangler of Singmass Close’ – and gave Joe a glance before she began to read. She turned the page, a feeling of triumph welling up inside her: the feeling of an explorer who had just spotted the shore of a new and undiscovered country.

  When she had finished, she pushed the book over to Joe who bent over it in intense concentration. From the expression on his face, she suspected that Sunny’s discovery had made him forget the pain in his shoulder.

  After a few moments of silence, Joe spoke. ‘So let’s get this straight. Natalie Parkes’s murder seems to be identical to the deaths of four young women back in the nineteen fifties.’

  ‘Looks like someone’s playing games,’ said Emily quietly. ‘They’ve heard about these murders and thought …’

  ‘Could it be the same bloke?’ said Sunny.

  Emily considered the question, wondering if the idea was as stupid as it sounded. Whoever killed those four unfortunate women back in post-war Eborby would be drawing his pension by now … probably past murdering anyone, never mind a fit, healthy young woman like Natalie Parkes.

  ‘This original killer would be more likely to batter them to death with his Zimmer frame,’ she observed. ‘Anyway, the murders stopped suddenly in nineteen fifty-seven so he either left the area or …’

  ‘He kicked the bucket himself.’ Joe picked up the book and examined the front page. ‘This was only published this year.’

  ‘So our killer could have got hold of a copy and …’ Joe nodded. ‘It seems more likely than the murderous pensioner theory and there must be other books about famous Eborby murders. This sort of thing sells like hot cakes.’

  ‘Or maybe he heard about the murders from an elderly relative. Let’s face it, Joe,’ Emily said with a sigh. ‘The possibilities are endless.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Probably time to stroll down and stick a few electrodes on this Brett Bluit’s testicles.’

  She saw Sunny grin dutifully at her joke but Joe seemed preoccupied, deep in thought.

  ‘You ready?’ Emily asked.

  Joe took a deep breath and gave his injured shoulder a surreptitious massage. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  Brett Bluit was a good three inches taller than Joe but he was thin, lanky and a martyr to acne. Joe was hardly surprised that the attractive, mini-skirted Natalie had spurned a liaison with such a specimen. He didn’t even look as if he had a particularly sparkling personality.

  It had already been agreed that Joe would do most of the talking because Emily considered that the man-to-man approach would go down well.

  ‘I believe you liked Natalie,’ he began, an expression of studied sympathy on his face.

  The boy blushed behind his acne. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You asked her out?’

  Brett shrugged his shoulders. ‘Might have done.’

  Joe leaned forward confidentially. Man to man. ‘I knew a girl once when I was your age. Gorgeous she was but she gave me the elbow. I took it so bad I signed up for a seminary and started training to be a priest.’

  Brett raised his head, suddenly interested. Joe’s approach seemed to be working.

  ‘Tell us what happened at The Devil’s Playground last night.’ Joe sneaked a surreptitious glance at the clock on the wall. It was five-thirty and his stomach was beginning to rumble.

  Brett began to drum his fingers on the table top, a nervous gesture. ‘Nothing much to tell. I had a few drinks and talked to Karen for a bit. Then
she picked up this bloke and I went home.’

  ‘And you talked to Natalie.’

  The boy looked up, uneasy. ‘

  No need to be nervous, Brett. We just need to know everything that happened last night. Did you see Natalie with anyone?’ Joe said, assuming his best father confessor voice.

  ‘Yeah.’ He hesitated as though he was making a decision. ‘I went outside for a smoke and I saw her walking off down the street. This car drew up and she sort of bent down to speak to the driver.’

  Joe and Emily looked at each other. If the boy was telling the truth – and it was always possible he was lying through his teeth – this might be an important development. ‘Did you see the driver?’

  Brett shook his head. ‘No, but I reckon it was someone she knew.’

  ‘Could the driver have been someone she met in the club?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Did she get into the car?’

  ‘Didn’t see. I’d finished my fag so I went back inside.’

  Joe leaned forward. He could smell the faint aroma of cigarette smoke on Brett’s clothes, which seemed to support his story. ‘What make of car was it? What colour?’

  ‘It was a Toyota … sporty model. I couldn’t tell what colour it was in the street lights but I think it was darkish.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you noticed the number?’ Joe knew from his days at the seminary that miracles occasionally happen.

  ‘I saw part of it. It was 2007 reg and I think it had a P in it … but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Emily. ‘You’re absolutely sure you didn’t see her get into the car?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Like I said, I went back into the club. Then not long after that I went home.’

  ‘Alone?’ ‘

  Yeah. Nobody else lives down my way.’

  Joe gave the boy an encouraging smile. Then he felt another sudden twinge in his shoulder and shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable and failing. ‘What kind of girl was Natalie?’ he asked.