by Kate Ellis
Chris shook his head again and the expression in his eyes told Joe that his ignorance wasn’t an act.
‘Who do you think killed Natalie?’
‘No idea. Some nutter maybe?’ Chris replied. The trouble was, Joe thought, he was probably right. And sooner or later amongst all the local sex offenders and odd-balls that were being interviewed as a matter of routine, they’d come up with a name.
In the meantime Christopher Strange, the last person to admit to seeing Natalie alive, was the best they’d got.
As they drove back to the police station with Strange in the passenger seat, a few spots of rain began to fall.
Michele went about her morning duties with her head bowed and her shoulders hunched, trying to look unobtrusive. If they knew that she’d discovered the body in the freezer she was sure they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.
She kept wondering about the unseen visitor. She knew from the voices she’d heard that it was a man and there was a possibility that he could be dangerous. He might even have killed the girl in the freezer.
She was becoming used to looking after Alice now. Even changing her pads and washing her soiled flesh was nothing more than an ordinary chore. She looked down at her hands. The skin was red and roughened with work and those glossy nails of which she’d once been so proud, were broken and chewed. But she had to work hard. She had to make them like her while she looked for some way out of there.
She’d kept her eyes open for her bag with her mobile phone inside but she’d seen no sign of it. Perhaps if they came to trust her, they’d lower their guard. That was the plan. Looking back, she wondered how she’d been stupid enough to believe Sylvia’s story of models and fashion shoots. But we all hear what we want to hear and disregard the rest, she thought philosophically – she’d heard something like that in a song once – a CD that had been one of her dad’s favourites.
It was time to give Alice her breakfast and she climbed the stairs with the steaming bowl of porridge and the cooled tea in the white plastic cup with the lid; the type of cup Michele had always associated with babies. She passed Barry on the landing, keeping her eyes lowered, and turned the key to unlock Alice’s door.
The old woman was sitting up in bed, her limp body propped up by pillows as she stared ahead with empty eyes. Michele smiled and asked her how she was. It was easier that way, pretending that she was getting a response. And if Sylvia or Barry were to overhear, they would be bound to appreciate the fact that she was making some sort of effort.
After the feeding came the changing. Michele had never had anyone to care about before – her mother hadn’t even allowed her a pet, saying it would make a mess in the house – and the feeling that Alice was her responsibility seemed to give her some sort of purpose in that dark, dead house with its unseen resident and its corpse in the freezer.
Once she had assembled everything she needed, she filled a plastic bowl with warm water from the little sink in the corner of the room and pulled the bedclothes back, exposing Alice’s scrawny limbs. The old woman’s face registered no emotion as Michele took the flannel and soap and began to clean the parchment skin.
When she’d cleaned the small feet carefully, she looked at the old woman and smiled. ‘Now how come your big toe’s missing, Alice? How did you lose that, eh? An accident was it?’ She stared into the old woman’s eyes. ‘You’re a bit of a mystery, aren’t you, Alice? Who are you, eh? And who …’
The tentative rattle of the door handle turning slowly made Michele fall silent, praying that she hadn’t been overheard.
Joe and Emily entered the incident room. There was a lot to tell the team at the morning briefing: Christopher Strange had given his statement and now their priority was to find out who Natalie had planned to meet after he’d dropped her off on the night she died. But before Emily could call everyone together, Sunny Porter came rushing over. He looked rather pleased with himself. Joe knew that look of old – it meant Sunny had discovered something nobody else had.
‘I’ve had someone tracking down everyone involved in the nineteen-fifties murders,’ he said. ‘Remember the bloke who ran the dolls’ hospital – Jervis?’
‘What about him? You found him?’
‘He’s in a nursing home on the outskirts of Whitby. And he had a daughter – name of Bridget.’ He paused, as if he were about to announce something momentous. ‘The proprietor of that shop, Bridget’s Bygones, is a Bridget Jervis. Now there can’t be too many of them around … not ones who are interested in dolls. And she’s vanished into thin air.’
Joe regretted his initial scepticism. Sunny might be an unreconstructed member of the old school but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sharp.
‘And I’ve traced Peter Crawthwaite, boyfriend of the first victim, Marion Grant. They’d had a row a couple of days before she was killed.’
‘Didn’t he have an alibi for her murder?’ Emily asked.
‘Aye, ma’am. He said he were drinking with a bloke who worked with Albert Jervis at the dolls’ hospital. Caleb Selly. Selly backed up his story.’
‘So where’s Crawthwaite now?’
‘He lives in one of them almshouses on Boothgate.’
Joe knew the almshouses. He had passed the quaint cottage-like building many times and he’d always been curious to see inside. And now he was keen to speak to someone who had been around when the Doll Strangler was at work. Maybe Peter Crawthwaite would know why the killings had stopped all those years ago … and whether the killer had come out of retirement.
‘And there’s still been no luck with Stallion’s mobile,’ Sunny said. ‘Whoever he is, he’s not answering.’
‘We need to find him,’ said Joe. ‘Natalie called him on the night she died.’
‘There must be something seriously wrong with a man who calls himself Stallion,’ mused Emily. ‘And I want to speak to Bridget Jervis. She owns a shop selling dolls like the one left at the murder scene and now she seems to have vanished. If she really is Albert Jervis’s daughter …’
‘I’d like to have a closer look at Polly Myers,’ Joe said casually.
‘Oh aye?’ He saw a smile playing on Emily’s lips.
Joe felt the blood rushing to his face. Was he that obvious? ‘Seriously, boss, I’m sure she knows something. I also want to find out why Philip Derby denied knowing about the nineteen-fifties murders.’ He spotted a photograph on Emily’s desk of a photogenic girl with glossy dark hair and generous, pouting lips. ‘Has that come from missing persons?’
‘Mmm. It’s Michele Carden. No sign of her yet.’
‘She’s at the same school as Natalie Parkes. Could there be a connection?’
‘They’re in different years – don’t even know each other. But I’m keeping an open mind.’
‘If two girls from the same school go missing, it’s usual to assume there’s a connection so why not in this case?’
Before Emily could answer the phone on her desk began to ring. She picked it up and Joe sat there watching the expression on her face turn from businesslike efficiency to downright shock. ‘Get the scene sealed off. We’ll be right over,’ she said before replacing the receiver carefully.
Joe watched her. He could tell the news was bad.
‘There’s been another one, Joe. Same MO. Doll and everything.’
Joe suddenly felt numb. ‘Where?’
‘About fifty yards from the first one. Behind the old Ragged School. A couple of workmen found her. She was half hidden behind some bins so they didn’t see her till …’
‘And it’s the same as the …?’
‘Looks like he’s copying the fifties killings in all their gruesome detail.’
‘Who is she? Do we know?’
‘A student at the university, name of Abigail Emson. Her student union card was in her bag. We’d better get someone down to the university to get her home details.’
Joe said nothing. He had a sudden vision of the girl’s parents going about their usual morning routine, u
naware that their lives were about to be shattered. But killers never considered the consequences of their violence, the grief that ripples out to engulf the victim’s family and friends. Joe had seen it all too often … and had even felt the pain himself.
Emily interrupted his thoughts. ‘We’ll break the news to the team. Then we’ll get down to Singmass Close.’
As Joe walked out into the incident room, he felt stunned, as though someone had hit him … hard.
CHAPTER 12
Emily Thwaite watched as Joe stood by the girl’s body, his head bowed. She knew he was praying for her soul and, although she attended church only for weddings, christenings and funerals, this thought gave her a small atom of comfort. At least someone wasn’t treating her like a lump of meat. At least someone cared.
Joe looked up. ‘She’s so young.’
Emily stared at the body lying on the ground half hidden by a row of bins, slumped against the russet brick wall of the old Ragged School, silent now that the workmen had abandoned their posts. Joe was right. The girl did look young lying there as though asleep while Sally Sharpe, the pathologist, went about her business. There were no flirtatious glances towards Joe today, Emily noticed. Sally worked efficiently in funereal silence.
The doll lay next to the body, covered by a sheet of plastic to avoid contamination. The crime scene investigators lived in hope that it would yield some clue but Emily herself wasn’t so confident. The last doll had been clean. The killer had been careful to cover his tracks, almost as if he was playing a game with them. This killing was no spur-of-the-moment impulse, no yielding to a frenzied blood lust. This had been planned meticulously. Relished. Enjoyed.
‘Strangulation?’ Emily asked when Sally looked up.
‘Exactly the same as before. Some sort of ligature. Something soft and stretchy. A scarf or a stocking, something like that.’
‘Can you give us a time of death?’ Emily enquired hopefully.
‘Around midnight, give or take an hour.’
‘Is that the best you can do?’ Emily knew she sounded impatient, but Sarah’s nocturnal antics were really beginning to catch up with her.
‘Sorry,’ Sally said firmly. ‘Time of death isn’t an exact science, you know. I do my best.’ She sat back on her heels. ‘The left big toe again. Done with a sharp blade … a penknife or something like that.’ She looked at the doll in its plastic shroud. ‘And he’s tried to chop the doll’s toe off too … but he’s not made such a good job of that. It’s just broken the porcelain.’ She looked at Emily. ‘Have you found out where the first doll came from yet?’
‘We’re working on it,’ Emily said with a hint of apology. Putting it into words made her feel inadequate. They had so many leads for Natalie Parkes’s murder but all of them seemed frustratingly vague. Bridget Jervis still hadn’t been traced – maybe they should make it a priority. And there was Philip Derby … but she’d leave him to Joe.
At that moment Sunny appeared round the corner of the building. The fact that he looked so wide awake while she couldn’t stop yawning made her feel slightly irritated.
‘I’ve sent someone to check out all the CCTV cameras in the area, ma’am,’ Sunny said. ‘Mind you, there aren’t many if he approached from the cathedral end – and half the ones in Gallowgate aren’t bloody working.’
‘Mmm,’ said Emily. ‘Last time was a dead loss.’
Joe spoke for the first time. ‘If Christopher Strange was telling the truth, Natalie Parkes had walked off in the direction of the cathedral. The obvious route she would take if she was getting the bus back to her house was down Jamesgate and through Boothgate Bar, then past the theatre to the bus stop outside Museum Gardens. But she seemed to be heading in the opposite direction. I reckon she was on her way somewhere. Somewhere she didn’t want her friends or Chris Strange to know about.’
‘But that could be irrelevant if our killer’s an opportunist,’ said Emily, her eyes on the girl’s prone body. With her contorted face out of sight, she looked peaceful; as if she was asleep. ‘And this second one makes it look more likely that he’s choosing his victims at random.’
Emily straightened her back. She was in charge and it was time they got to work. ‘Right then. Let’s get the good people of Singmass Close interviewed. With any luck someone might have seen something this time. And check out the alibis of everyone we spoke to about the first murder. I want to know where everyone was last night. OK?’
She stared down at the girl’s body for a few moments. She wanted to get whoever had cut her hopeful young life short and she’d get him whatever it took … this twisted bastard who messed around with dolls and treated living women as if they were disposable playthings.
Polly Myers was frightened. There’d been another death right there in Singmass Close. Too near for comfort.
As soon as she’d finished making a statement to the young constable who’d knocked on her door, Yolanda phoned.
Since the first murder, Daisy had seemed nervous in Singmass Close, huddled in the corner with her dolls, talking to Mary in a whisper. Polly had thought a change of scene would do Daisy good and letting her stay with Yolanda again had seemed like the perfect solution. But Yolanda had told her on the phone that Daisy was missing Mary and this encouragement of Daisy’s obsession with her imaginary friend was starting to irritate Polly.
The police were still doing the rounds as Polly left number six and headed for Yolanda’s flat above the antique warehouse on Coopergate. Polly had first met Yolanda when she’d visited a psychic fair in search of help when Daisy had acquired Mary, the ragged little girl who seemed so real to her – more real than her friends at school. It was then she’d discovered that Yolanda had gifts denied to all but a special few. Yolanda could speak to the dead.
At first Polly had only intended to ask Yolanda’s advice about Mary – just a tentative enquiry, no strings. But Yolanda had known all about Polly’s predicament without a word being spoken and she’d claimed that Daisy was in danger. Polly hadn’t felt inclined to argue and she’d let Daisy stay at Yolanda’s for two nights to see how she settled in. And on the second of those nights Natalie Parkes had been murdered in Singmass Close.
Yolanda’s flat was shabby and old-fashioned but it was large with three bedrooms and plenty of room to accommodate a small child. To Polly’s relief Daisy had taken to Yolanda, with her long grey hair, her taste for colourful clothes and her gently understanding manner, instantly. And there were enough strange and curious objects around her flat to keep a child with an enquiring mind entertained.
Yolanda had invited Polly to stay too but she hadn’t accepted right away, fearing what might happen if he came looking for Daisy and found the house in Singmass Close unoccupied. But with this second murder, Polly had changed her mind: she really needed to get away and she was certain he’d never find them at Yolanda’s.
Polly hurried through the crowded streets of Eborby, all the time looking around to make sure she wasn’t being followed. And when she finally reached the antiques warehouse she rang the cheap plastic bell beside the door that led up to the flat, feeling a tremendous wave of relief.
Everyone in the Singmass Close area had been interviewed and Joe knew he couldn’t put off his return to the police station any longer. Emily had gone ahead of him to wait for word that Abigail’s family had been informed and to make arrangements to receive them. He didn’t envy her. In his opinion dealing with victims’ loved ones was the worst part of the job.
As he walked towards the main road he could hear the builders hammering inside the old Ragged School, having resumed work after the initial shock. He glanced back at Polly’s house and noticed that the doll had gone from the window. He hadn’t seen her that morning but he knew she’d been spoken to. But she’d seen nothing. There was no excuse for him to go back … even if he had the time.
He crossed Gallowgate and walked through Vicars Green, his eyes drawn irresistibly towards the flat where his late colleague Kevin’s daug
hter, Carmel, lived. He hadn’t seen Carmel for a while. Perhaps now that she was settled with her boyfriend, he’d convinced himself that she didn’t need to see him any more. Or perhaps she reminded him too much of painful times. Maybe he’d give her a call one day. Or maybe he’d let things drift.
He passed the cathedral, thinking that it was about time he had a word with George Merryweather to see what he knew about Singmass Close and the tales of the ghostly children. There was a nagging suspicion in the back of his brain that those stories and the murders, past and present, might be linked somehow because dolls and ghostly children seemed to go together. George was supposed to be the Diocese’s expert on such matters so maybe it was worth paying him a visit. And besides, Joe needed to see him again. He valued George’s wisdom.
He climbed the cathedral steps to the south door, the entrance used both by worshippers and the never-ending stream of tourists and sightseers, and ran George to ground in an office that looked as though it had just been ransacked by a team of particularly untidy burglars. But Joe knew that was its normal condition.
George was a round man, balding with a benign smile. He cleared a chair of papers and invited Joe to sit. ‘How’s Maddy?’ he asked.
‘In London. Job interview.’ He paused. He didn’t feel inclined to discuss Maddy as there were other, more pressing things on his mind. ‘There’s been another murder in Singmass Close.’
‘How terrible,’ said George. He sounded genuinely shocked and bowed his head for a second in prayer.
‘What do you know about these hauntings in the close?’ Joe asked. ‘Is it true or is it just something to give the tourists a cheap thrill?’
George looked up. ‘You know there’s something in it, don’t you? You’ve sensed something.’
Joe hesitated. Had he sensed something? He’d certainly had a feeling of being watched but that might have been his imagination. ‘I don’t know, George. There’s certainly an odd atmosphere in the place. Is that story about the master of the Ragged School fact or fiction?’
