by Kate Ellis
‘Of fact, not fiction.’
‘Which is which? Sometimes it’s so hard to tell.’
‘You didn’t send a note with the book. Why was that?’
‘Didn’t really think it was necessary.’ He grinned, showing a row of crooked teeth. ‘I thought a spot of anonymity might be more intriguing. And I was right. It’s brought you here to my little nest.’
Joe tried to hide his irritation. But something about Derby made him curious. He’d sent the book out of the blue, drawing attention to himself during a murder inquiry. He’d known killers do that – almost as if they couldn’t help themselves. And he’d cultivated this slightly old-fashioned, eccentric persona, which somehow seemed a little artificial, as though he was playing a part.
‘Do you do anything other than writing?’ Joe asked.
‘I have a part share in the bookshop downstairs … not that it makes me a fortune. And I do some teaching. It allows me time for my writing.’
‘Ever worked at Hicklethorpe Manor?’
The answer was a vigorous shake of the head.
‘Did you ever meet Natalie Parkes, the girl who was murdered?’
There was a split second of hesitation before Derby shook his head again.
‘You know there were four similar murders in Singmass Close in the nineteen fifties?’
Derby didn’t answer.
‘It’s been in all the papers – that there might be some sort of link. Copycat killing and all that. Four young women were killed in Singmass Close back then … and dolls were left by their bodies.’
‘If it’s the same man he’ll be getting on a bit.’
‘We’re following a number of leads, sir,’ said Joe stiffly.
His instincts told him that he should keep his distance from this man. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t make the connection with the fifties murders, being interested in local history.’
‘Post-war Eborby is hardly my cup of tea, Inspector. My interests lie much earlier.’ He looked Joe in the eye. ‘From your accent, you’re not from round these parts yourself. The banks of the River Mersey, at a guess. Am I right?’
Joe nodded but said nothing. This man already had his address – he wasn’t going to share details of his private life with him as well.
‘Incidentally, why did you send the book to me? Why not DCI Thwaite? She’s the chief investigating officer.’
‘I saw your name in the local paper. A DI Plantagenet told our reporter and all that.’ He leaned forward, a sly smile on his face. ‘I rather liked the name.’ Derby gave Joe an apologetic half smile and moistened his lips. ‘Look, maybe you’d like to meet for a drink some time. We could meet some friends of mine … see if we share any interests in common.’
Joe stood up, wondering what was behind the invitation. Not simple friendship, he was certain of that – or a sexual proposition. ‘I’ve got to get back to the incident room. Thanks for your time,’ he said with stiff formality.
Derby looked away.
‘And thanks for the book,’ Joe said before hurrying down the staircase into the shop, aware of Derby watching his disappearing back.
When he neared the cathedral he saw Emily Thwaite in the distance, striding ahead towards Singmass Close in her businesslike suit. Joe was surprised to see her walking. But then she had mentioned she was thinking of enrolling at Weightwatchers before Natalie Parkes had got herself murdered and forced her to change her plans.
Joe broke into a run and eventually caught up with her. She looked pleased to see him.
‘Anything new?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been in a bloody meeting. Useless waste of time. Did you see me on the news last night?’ she added shyly.
‘Yeah. I caught the late bulletin. Good performance, boss.’
Their eyes met and she smiled. ‘Thanks. I wanted another look at the crime scene to remind myself of the lie of the land.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Joe fell into step beside her. ‘Did you know that the area’s supposed to be haunted? I was sent a book. The Children of Singmass Close. I’ve just been to see the author.’
Emily stopped. ‘And?’
‘He asked me to go for a drink with him.’
Emily grinned. ‘Was he after your gorgeous body or just lonely?’
Joe thought for a few moments. ‘I know it might sound that way but I think he might have had another agenda.’
‘Like what?’
Joe found himself wondering, recalling Derby’s words and gestures. There was something about Derby he couldn’t quite pinpoint. ‘To be honest, I’m not quite sure.’
‘Did he have anything interesting to say?’
‘He hinted that the murders could be connected with these Victorian kids who died in the Ragged School – the building with all the scaffolding. They’re supposed to haunt the site. Think about it, Emily. Children. Dolls. Dolls left at the murder scene. Could there be some connection?’
‘We’re looking for a nutter, not a ghost.’
‘You’re right, boss. But he’s a nutter who knows the story.’
He saw Emily nod. She had to give him that one.
They’d just passed the National Trust shop on the corner and the entrance to Singmass Close was in sight.
‘Wonder if anything’s come in from the TV appeal yet,’ said Joe, trying to sound optimistic.
Emily said nothing and marched on ahead.
Michele sat there on the bed spooning the thin soup between Alice’s trembling lips, experiencing a small thrill of satisfaction every time the old woman swallowed a few drops.
At first she hadn’t spoken to the old woman. But now she found herself keeping up a narrative, finding comfort in talking to another human being, even one who didn’t respond.
The collection of antique dolls on the shelf gave her the creeps. She hated the way they stared at her, as if they were watching her performance and judging. She would have liked to throw them out of the window, to get rid of their smug rosebud simpers and their hard glass eyes. But the window was barred, like a nursery or a prison. Whether those bars were for her or for Alice, she didn’t know. But she suspected they served to imprison them both.
She took another spoonful of soup and blew on it carefully as Sylvia had instructed. She had the uneasy feeling that, should she disobey Sylvia’s orders, there might be unpleasant consequences and she didn’t like the man Sylvia addressed as Barry. When Sylvia’s gaze was elsewhere, he had stared at her small breasts in a way that made her feel uncomfortable.
Last night she’d been locked up in the attic room again with the chamber pot and this time Sylvia didn’t even try to pretend the door was stuck. She suspected that she’d been given something to ensure that she slept – something that left her head fuzzy and her mouth dry in the mornings.
The subject of modelling and photo shoots had suddenly been dropped. It had been the bait and now that Michele had fallen into the trap, there was no longer any need for pretence and lies. She was there as a prisoner. She was there to work. And no matter how hard she looked for an escape route, she couldn’t see one. The place was isolated and she was either locked in or watched by Sylvia or Barry.
Last night, before she’d fallen into her deep, chemical sleep, she was sure she’d heard another male voice, lower pitched than Barry’s, but it could have been her imagination. And as she’d lain on the narrow bed that morning, she’d found herself listening for any sound in the country silence that might bring hope of escape. But she’d heard nothing.
She put the spoon up to Alice’s lips but the old woman shut them tightly like a stubborn toddler and the soup dribbled down the front of her flannelette nightdress. Michele swore softly.
She placed the soup bowl on the bedside table and crossed the room to the chest of drawers under the dolls’ malevolent gaze. But as she reached out to open the drawer where the clean linen was kept, the sound of raised voices in the distance made her freeze.
She could just make out snatches of conversation. A man an
d a woman.
‘Can’t take the risk.’
‘He mustn’t know.’
‘Who’s he going to tell?’
‘In the freezer … won’t see.’
She recognised Barry and Sylvia’s voices and she wondered who they were talking about. Who was the ‘he’ and what mustn’t he know?
As Michele stood there, quite still, listening for any words that would provide hope of escape, a door slammed somewhere in the distance followed by a still, heavy silence.
The Doll Strangler had seen her on the TV last night with her smug professional concern as she appealed for witnesses. She had had the doll with her and she had shown it to the world. In his day women like DCI Emily Thwaite would have known their place, he thought with mounting anger … something akin to the anger that had led him to put the silk stocking around the throats of those women and squeeze until the life had left their bodies. He’d have liked to do that to Emily Thwaite … to silence her arrogant tongue for ever.
It wouldn’t be long before another one died. Once tasted, the power over life and death was irresistible.
CHAPTER 9
Natalie Parkes had been seen on the night of her death by no less than twelve people who were prepared to swear that she had been sitting on a bench on platform nine of Eborby railway station, that she had been walking down Boargate arm in arm with an older Asian man, that she had been hanging around Scarborough bus station in the early hours of the morning, and that she had been walking by the river with a small dog. All these alleged sightings would be checked out of course but Joe and Emily both knew they would lead to dead ends.
‘Anything new?’ Joe asked as Emily shuffled into her office. He noticed that she looked tired. But then they’d been keeping long hours.
‘We’re still waiting for the verdict on Vince Strange’s car. But his golf club story checks out. He was there all right. So was the Deputy Chief Constable. They both left around eleven. But even so, we only have his wife’s word for it that Vince was home safely tucked up in bed at the time Natalie left The Devil’s Playground. You got anything else?’
Joe took his notebook from his jacket pocket. There was so much information coming in that he needed a reminder. ‘Karen Strange spent the night with a bloke called Jon Firman who confirms her story.’ Joe hesitated. ‘I’ve been wondering about this “Stallion” on Natalie’s mobile phone. Could she have been leading some kind of double life?’
‘We’ve spoken to all Natalie’s friends and there’s been no mention of any Stallion. I thought it could be the nickname of someone in her social circle but nobody seems to recognise it. And apparently Natalie was unusually secretive when it came to her sex life.’ She thought for a few seconds. ‘It’s always possible that she went for older men and kept quiet about her conquests.’
‘Perhaps. Any leads on this missing girl yet – Michele Carden?’ Joe asked.
‘She was caught on CCTV in the railway station but she seemed to be alone. Trouble is, the cameras don’t cover everywhere. If she’d caught a train … or gone out of the back entrance … The Met’s missing persons unit’s on the lookout for her. I bet that’s where she’s gone.’
‘Don’t know what these kids expect to find in London when they arrive there at King’s Cross without a penny apart from exploitation by pimps and sleeping rough.’
He saw Emily raise her eyebrows, probably surprised at the vehemence of his words. The subject of London had touched a nerve and this rather surprised him.
‘Look, I want another word with a woman who lives in Singmass Close. Number six. Her window directly overlooks the crime scene and I’m sure she knows something. I told her I’d go round and take a statement.’ He tried to make the words sound casual.
‘Can’t do any harm to put the pressure on,’ she said with what looked to Joe like a knowing wink.
As Joe left the incident room a young constable handed him a sheet of paper – an urgent message from Forensic. A necklace with gold letters spelling the name Natalie had been found underneath the passenger seat of Barbara Strange’s red Toyota and this juicy morsel of news made his heart beat a little faster. But his initial excitement vanished rapidly as he realised that Natalie could have been in her friend’s mother’s car quite legitimately at any time during her time at Hicklethorpe Manor. If Natalie had lost the necklace some time ago, someone might remember. But what if she had been wearing it on the night she disappeared?
He told the constable to report the find to DCI Thwaite and noted the apprehensive expression that suddenly appeared on the young man’s face. There were some who considered Emily as fearsome as a man-eating tiger. But Joe knew she had her soft spots even though she didn’t always reveal them to everyone at work.
Joe needed an opportunity to think so he decided to walk. As he passed the railway station where Michele Carden was last seen, he began to wonder what had happened to her – and Leanne Williams, the girl who’d disappeared some weeks earlier. The two girls were somewhere out there, alone and vulnerable. But in the arrogance of youth, they probably weren’t aware of the danger they might be in. He felt exasperated at their foolhardy stupidity. But when he’d been their age he too considered himself invincible.
The sight of the cathedral brought George Merryweather to mind again. Although George spent a good deal of time exorcising unquiet spirits, the man always managed to cheer him up if life was ever getting him down. And with the news of Maddy’s second interview, he felt unsettled. Or perhaps it wasn’t Maddy. Perhaps it was meeting Polly Myers – almost like seeing Kaitlin raised from the dead.
He contemplated paying George a visit on the pretext of asking him about the ghostly children of Singmass Close. But when he looked at his watch he knew there wasn’t time. The investigation was moving too fast. And he needed to see Polly again.
Passing through the archway into Singmass Close, he caught a whiff of garlic and herbs from the Italian restaurant nearby. But as soon as he stepped into the Close itself the restaurant’s Mediterranean liveliness suddenly seemed a world away. Here the buildings blocked out the bustle of the shops and the traffic noise, and left the place in brooding silence.
The doll was still sitting in the window of number six, staring out with unseeing eyes as Polly Myers opened the door and greeted him with a nervous smile.
He smiled to put her at her ease. ‘I’m here to take that statement. Just routine. All right if I come in?’
She led him into the living room with a bare wood floor and walls painted in rich shades of terracotta and aubergine, which seemed to suck the air and light from the room. As she invited him to sit she kept glancing at the staircase in the corner of the room. There was no sound from upstairs. If there was a child in the house, she was being remarkably quiet.
‘I need to ask you about last Friday, the night Natalie Parkes was murdered. Did you go out at all?’
She shook her head. At a certain angle her resemblance to Kaitlin was heart-rending but at other times it was hardly there at all.
‘You told me that your daughter was staying at a friend’s that night. You didn’t take advantage of the situation and …?’
‘No. I told you. I was in all night.’ Polly looked away. There was something she was hiding and Joe couldn’t make out what it was.
‘Did you see anyone on the close that night? Anyone behaving suspiciously?’
She shook her head.
‘Has anyone been hanging around? Anyone you didn’t recognise?’
‘Only the builders working on the Ragged School. But they all go home at five on the dot.’
‘And you’ve not seen any of them coming back after dark?’
‘No.’
The builders had already been interviewed and eliminated. But it was a question worth asking – just in case. ‘Where’s your daughter now?’ Joe asked gently.
‘At the childminder’s. I was at work this morning.’
‘Where do you work?’ Suddenly he was anxious to learn more
about her.
‘Ethnic Arts. It’s on Boargate.’
Joe nodded. He knew Ethnic Arts. Maddy admired the jewellery in there on a regular basis.
He glanced down at Polly’s left hand and saw there was no wedding ring on the third finger. ‘What about Daisy’s father?’ He knew the question was probably tactless but he needed to know.
He saw a flash of panic in Polly’s eyes. ‘He’s not around,’ she said quickly.
There was a sound from upstairs, a muffled thud like something falling onto a thickly carpeted floor. Then the sound of soft footsteps above their heads.
‘Is someone upstairs?’
‘It’s probably noise from next door. The walls are so thin in these houses.
He looked into her eyes. A darker shade than Kaitlin’s. ‘Is something bothering you?’
She shook her head and said she was fine. Then her lips parted and she looked uncertain, as though she’d had second thoughts and decided to confide in him after all. But after a split second the indecision vanished. ‘You wanted me to make a statement. There’s really nothing much to say but …’
Joe took her statement, writing slowly, somehow reluctant to bring the encounter to an end. But eventually he couldn’t put off his departure any longer. ‘Look, if you ever want to talk about anything … discuss any problems,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you my number.’ He handed her his card and she looked at it closely before putting it in the pocket of her long black cardigan.
As she shut the front door behind him he glanced upwards. It could have been his imagination but he could have sworn the doll had moved. It had shifted a foot to one side and its arm was raised, as if in farewell. Joe’s heart began to beat a little faster. Perhaps someone had been upstairs after all. Someone Polly Myers didn’t want him to see.
He turned back and he was about to ring the doorbell again when he heard his mobile’s tinny ring tone. It was Emily.
A witness had seen Natalie wearing the necklace found in the Stranges’ car on the night she died and Vince and Barbara Strange were being brought in for questioning.
