by Kate Ellis
‘When will they let you know?’ He tried to sound positive, cheerful and he wondered if she could see through the act.
‘Soon. Better go. Speak to you tomorrow.’
He heard the dialling tone and stood there in the darkness as a feeling of loss and emptiness hit him with unexpected force. He tried to utter a swift prayer for strength but he couldn’t quite find the words. Then he forced himself to walk on. He needed to get home. He needed a drink.
He took a deep breath and fixed his eyes ahead but suddenly he slowed down and felt his mouth go dry. Ahead, just by the arch leading to Singmass Close, he saw two figures embracing. Two women, one middle-aged, one younger. The older woman kissed the younger on the cheek before hurrying off to a waiting car, waving car keys in farewell. Leaving Polly Myers alone standing on the pavement, watching her departure.
Joe paused for a few moments before walking towards her. He didn’t want to alarm a lone woman walking home in the dark but, on the other hand, he felt a need to talk to her. As she reached the archway by the Italian restaurant, he called her name and she swung round, her eyes wide with fright. Joe had expected the fear to disappear when she realised that it was him and not some potential rapist or mugger, but if anything she looked more apprehensive as he approached.
Joe smiled to put her at her ease. ‘Sorry if I startled you.’
As she gave a small nod of acknowledgement, she shifted from foot to foot, anxious to be away.
‘I expect you have to get back to Daisy,’ he said.
‘No, she’s at a friend’s. My mother’s just taken me out for a pizza. She had to get back.’
‘How about a drink?’ he asked on impulse. It was late and it probably wasn’t wise but, for some reason, he was reluctant to let her go. His heart was pounding like a teenager’s on a first date and the feeling wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
Polly shook her head. ‘I’d better get home. I’ve got things to do.’
‘I’ll walk you to your door.’
She said nothing as they passed under the archway and crossed the chilly close. There was no constable on duty now: the powers that be had judged it to be an unproductive use of manpower and had increased patrols instead. But little had changed apart from that: the murder scene was still taped off and the cellophane wrapped around the wilting flowers still twinkled in the weak light of the old street lamps. Polly’s house itself was in darkness and once more Joe had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched from the shadows. As Polly unlocked her door he looked round but there was nobody there.
‘Thank you,’ she said formally as the door swung open.
He knew it was a dismissal and felt a pang of disappointment.
After she’d said goodnight and shut her front door, as though she was eager to be rid of him, Joe stood quite still for a few moments until he saw the lights go on, scolding himself for his folly and telling himself that the resemblance to Kaitlin was only skin deep. He looked up at the window. The doll was still there, watching over the close. If it could have talked, he thought, their job would have been easy. Its sightless glass eyes must have seen who murdered Natalie. But this particular witness wasn’t telling.
It took him less that five minutes to reach his flat and as soon as he put his key in the front door, it began to rain. He’d timed it well, he thought as he went through the place switching on the lights. Seeing Polly again and being alone in Singmass Close at night had been a little unsettling and he needed some reminder of the banal world outside. He looked through his CDs but somehow none of the music in his collection appealed just then so he flicked the television to a channel showing an undemanding police thriller, so removed from real life as to be laughable.
He tolerated the programme maker’s inaccuracies for ten minutes before switching on his computer. There was something he wanted to check on. Something that was niggling at the back of his mind.
P. H. Derby was bound to have earned a mention on the Internet in his capacity as an author and it was about time he found out a little more about the man and his writings. Sure enough, he was there on the Eborby House Publications website but he only appeared to have written two books for that particular publisher – The Children of Singmass Close and another called A Walk Around the Walls about the history of the city walls and Eborby’s various medieval gateways.
But when he began to search further, he struck gold. Another small publisher had produced a work by P. H. Derby. It was entitled Famous Eborby Murders and, according to the publisher’s details, among these famous murderers was a case known as the ‘Doll Strangler of Singmass Close’.
P. H. Derby had claimed not to have known about the killings in the 1950s. But he had actually written about them. He’d been lying through his teeth.
When Abigail Emson left the Black Lion at the end of Gallowgate she found that her purse was empty apart from a pound coin and a twenty-pence piece. Hardly enough for a taxi. But then she’d expected the other barmaid, Katy, to give her a lift home as usual: she couldn’t have known that Katy would have missed her shift at the pub because of a migraine.
Abigail looked at her watch before glancing back at the darkened pub. If she’d realised sooner, the landlord would have lent her a tenner but now the doors were locked and bolted and all the lights were out. There was nothing for it but to walk to the bus stop and catch the bus out to the university.
She walked swiftly down Gallowgate, looking nervously over her shoulder. There was a killer about and you couldn’t be too careful. She thought the murdered girl had been found somewhere near the little archway just beyond the Italian restaurant. But she couldn’t be certain. Everything she knew about the case came from overheard snippets of conversation as she served in the bar. Rumours, half truths and exaggeration … the stock in trade of the Black Lion’s regulars.
But they must have been wrong about the location. Nobody would be hanging around a murder scene and she could hear a voice quite clearly. A small voice. High-pitched, coming from somewhere beyond the archway.
‘Hello. Can you help me? Please help me. I’ve hurt myself …’
Abigail couldn’t decide whether the voice belonged to a woman or a child. There was certainly something childlike about it. Pleading. Lisping.
‘Please help me.’
Curious, Abigail stepped into the archway and craned her neck to look but the close appeared to be empty. Then she caught a glimpse of a movement by the old Georgian building on the left … the building swathed in plastic and scaffolding.
Abigail stepped through the arch. ‘Hello,’ she said experimentally. ‘Anybody there? Are you all right?’ But the place was still and silent.
Curious, she called out another soft hello and an answering muffled giggle emboldened her to move forward. The child – if it was a child – was hiding somewhere behind the building. It was dangerous. Kids had been killed on building sites.
‘Where are you?’ she called, stepping into the shadows, too preoccupied to hear soft footsteps approaching from behind.
CHAPTER 11
First thing the next morning Joe noticed that Emily looked exhausted. The flesh beneath her eyes looked purple as though she’d been punched. Joe wondered why this was but he didn’t ask. She would hardly want to be reminded that she looked rough – one glance in the mirror would have told her already.
But it was Emily herself who gave the explanation while they drove to Christopher Strange’s shared student house in Hasledon. Her young daughter, Sarah, had been up half the night complaining of bad dreams; dreams in which her imaginary friend, Grizelda, was in danger from some wicked men. Emily, of course, assured her that as she was a police officer, no bad men would dare come anywhere near Grizelda but this hadn’t been enough to reassure her. Sarah’s nightmares had seemed real to her and even that morning, she had seemed upset and wouldn’t leave Jeff ’s side. ‘If this goes on, I’m going to have to take her to the doctor’s,’ she said.
Joe had a sudden flash of inspi
ration. ‘Did she see you on TV talking about the murder?’
He saw Emily hesitate for a moment. ‘Yes, she did. Jeff let the kids watch it because of the novelty of seeing Mum on the box. Do you think …’
‘Mum being involved in grisly murders. Could be misinterpreted. Mum’s in danger herself by being connected with something like that. And if she imagines that someone she loves is in danger that might bring out all sorts of insecurities and …’
She sighed. ‘You could be right. I’ll have a talk to her tonight.’ She gave him a shy smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘All part of the service.’
‘Any news from Maddy?’
‘She called last night. The second interview went well.’ He felt the need to change the subject. ‘I bumped into Polly Myers last night on the way home.’
He was about to say that he’d walked Polly home but he thought better of it, fearing Emily might make some suggestive comment; a joke at his expense. In the pressure of an investigation CID thrived on dubious humour. It helped to relieve the tension.
‘And when I got back I looked up P. H. Derby on the Internet. Remember, he sent me that book he wrote about the children of Singmass Close? Well he told me he hadn’t heard of the Doll Strangler murders in the fifties but it turns out he wrote a book on famous Eborby murders … including that particular case.’
‘Then I think we need to have another word with Mr P. H. Derby. I’ve known killers draw attention to themselves like that before… . as if they couldn’t help it.’
‘Because deep down they want to be caught?’
‘Maybe.’ They’d reached Hasledon now where pockets of Victorian property had been divided into flats or shared houses, mostly occupied by Eborby’s student population. Christopher Strange lived in one of these houses, a Victorian terrace with a purple front door and filthy windows. Emily got out of the car first, marched up to the front door and pressed the doorbell.
At first there was no answer but Joe found it hard to believe that a house full of students would be empty at eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Emily rang the bell again and after a few minutes the door opened slowly and a bleary-eyed young man wearing a T-shirt proclaiming the virtues of a certain brand of lager, stood in the open doorway, blinking at them like a creature more accustomed to darkness than daylight.
Emily held up her warrant card. ‘We’re looking for Christopher Strange.’
The young man suddenly became alert, as though someone had thrown cold water at his face. ‘Bloody hell … I mean, er … yeah.’ He turned and bellowed ‘Chris’ into the shadowy depths of the house and after a few moments Chris Strange himself appeared.
As he came down the stairs, the first thing Joe noticed about him was how like his father he was. He had the same colouring, similar build – although Vince had filled out with the years – and almost identical mannerisms. Unlike his sleepy house mate, Chris Strange had the wideawake look of the sporty type, something Joe had never been during his time at university. When Joe asked if they could talk inside, he led them to an unexpectedly tidy living room, the only concession to the student stereotype being a brace of empty lager cans sitting on the cheap pine coffee table.
‘So what’s this about?’ he said as he sat down on a low sofa and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Emily told him, keeping it simple. And as she spoke, Joe watched Chris’s face carefully. He looked wary, as if he was afraid of falling into a trap.
‘Where were you last Friday night, Chris?’ Emily asked.
The answer came quickly, gabbled almost as if it had been rehearsed. ‘I was at home. I went out for a quick drink with an old mate from school and I decided to stay the night at my parents’ because it was nearer.’
‘What time did you get home?’
‘About half eleven. My dad had just got in. He’ll tell you.’
‘Did you go out again?’
His eyes widened for a split second, then he looked down at his hands.
‘Is there anything you want to tell us, Chris?’ Joe asked. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the student’s face.
A flash of panic appeared in Chris’s eyes then he hesitated for a few moments before nodding his head. Chris Strange knew something. It was just a matter of coaxing it out of him.
There was a long silence while he gathered his thoughts. Joe waited. He knew he’d get more out of Christopher Strange if he let him make his confession in his own time. Emily was sitting by his side, perfectly still, as though she feared any movement would distract the young man and break the spell.
After a few moments Strange began to speak, his eyes focussed on the ground. ‘Look, I didn’t want to get involved but …’
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’ said Joe gently.
‘Karen doesn’t know. I mean …’
‘What doesn’t Karen know?’ Joe asked, trying to sound patient, teasing out the information like a priest in the confessional.
‘About me and Nat.’
‘You were having a relationship with Natalie Parkes?’
‘Mainly physical. And I wasn’t the only one, believe me.’ He gave a bitter smile. ‘Between you and me, she was a bit of a nymphomaniac.’
‘Did she ever mention a lad in her year called Brett Bluit? He was at The Devil’s Playground on the night she died.’
Strange shrugged. ‘She did say some spotty youth used to follow her about sometimes. Don’t think he got anywhere. Is that him?’
‘Let’s get back to you, shall we. Did you see Natalie last Friday night?’
Chris nodded and took a deep breath. ‘I’d been out for a quick drink then I went home. But I got fed up. My parents had gone to bed and I remembered Nat said she was going to The Devil’s Playground so I thought I might go along. Who knows, I might get lucky.’
‘You knew your sister was going?’
‘I was hoping she’d have picked someone up and left by the time I got there.’
‘Go on.’
‘Anyway, I was looking for a parking space near the club when I saw Nat walking down the street. I stopped and we chatted for a bit.’
‘She got in the car?’
‘Eventually. I asked her if she wanted to go on somewhere else. I didn’t particularly want to go into The Devil’s Playground if my sister was still there.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Nat said she was meeting someone. And before you ask, she didn’t say who. And I never asked. But she was excited, like she had some big secret. After a few minutes she got out of the car and walked off down the road towards the cathedral.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I went on to Boodles – saw a couple of mates from uni there. They were off their faces but they’ll remember. I can give you their names.’
Joe made a note. But if these mates were as intoxicated as Chris Strange claimed, their estimate of the time he arrived at the club might not be too reliable. He could still have killed Natalie Parkes.
‘Did you know she’d lost her necklace in the car?’
Chris shook his head and Joe could see that Emily was watching his face carefully. There were no tell-tale signs that he was lying but, on the other hand, he might just be a good actor.
‘Tell me about Natalie.’ Emily said. ‘What was she like?’
Chris thought for a while. ‘Independent. Adventurous. Sexy. Her family background made her tough, I reckon. Her father walked out and went to the States with another woman leaving the mother to bring up her and Will alone. Not that her mother seemed to be much use. She was busy pursuing her own agenda if you ask me … series of boyfriends and all that. As soon as Natalie and her brother hit puberty they were on their own.’
This seemed a remarkably mature assessment of the situation and Chris Strange rose a couple of notches in Joe’s estimation.
‘And your sister, Karen, was her best friend?’
‘People like Natalie don’t have best friends. Natalie used to tease K
aren. She used to say she had a secret and she was making big money from it. It really used to wind Karen up but she still seemed to regard her as some sort of role model. Can’t think why.’
‘What about Brett Bluit?’
‘If that’s the spotty youth she used to talk about sometimes, she used to wind him up as well. It amused her to make him think he was in with a chance. Nat could be cruel, you know. She wasn’t a particularly nice person.’
‘You mentioned the mother had boyfriends. Any chance that any of them were involved with Natalie?’
Chris Strange paused for a few moments, as though he was trying to remember something that might be important. ‘Actually there was one … just before Thierry. Nat said something happened but she wouldn’t say what it was. Just made a joke of it … how older men always went for her. It didn’t seem to bother her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she led him on. She was like that.’
‘Anything else you can tell me?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Like I said, she was very mysterious about who she was meeting. I had the feeling something was going on … something she didn’t want me to know about.’
‘You realise you’ll have to make a formal statement at the station.’ He stood up and Chris did likewise.
‘No time like the present, eh? My parents don’t have to know, do they?’
Joe said nothing. It was probably inevitable that the Stranges would get to know … just as they had got to know about where Karen spent the night.
‘Ever heard of the Singmass Close Doll Strangler in the nineteen fifties?’ Joe asked out of the blue, taking Chris by surprise.
‘Only what I’ve seen in the papers since Nat … You don’t think it’s the same bloke do you? If he’s still alive he must be ancient.’
‘Ever heard the name Michele Carden?’
