Playing with Bones

by Kate Ellis

  ‘Yes. There was a small party that night at my flat – just a few select friends. Phil said Natalie would be there – she’d called to confirm the venue. I was rather relieved when she didn’t turn up, to tell you the truth. Her presence was becoming a bit of an embarrassment for me, as you can imagine. It put me in a very uncomfortable position.’

  ‘I’m sure it did,’ she said, unable to resist a note of sarcasm. If Cassidy was looking for sympathy, he was looking in the wrong place. But at least Cassidy had explained the call to Stallion on the night of Natalie’s death. She must have been on her way to his place when she was killed. And the killer either knew where she was going or followed her. And this meant Cassidy and Derby were right back in the frame.

  ‘We tried to call Stallion’s number,’ she said, watching his face carefully. ‘You hung up on us. Then you switched the phone off.’

  ‘I was frightened. I didn’t want to get involved,’ was the quick reply.

  ‘Was Natalie blackmailing you?’ Emily asked, leaning forward. ‘Getting rid of a potential blackmailer is a good reason for murder in my book. You must have wanted Natalie Parkes dead. She was an embarrassment. She could have finished you. Admit it.’

  Cassidy shook his head vigorously.

  ‘My client’s admitting nothing of the sort,’ said Lightly. ‘He has alibis for both murders so …’

  ‘Right,’ said Emily, flicking her eyes towards Joe who was sitting by her side listening patiently. Why did he always remind her of a priest taking confession when he listened to suspects’ stories? ‘We’ll need the names and addresses of everyone who was at your flat on the night of Natalie’s death. And we’ll need all the details of exactly where you were and who you were with on the night of Abigail Emson’s murder as well. Everything you tell us will be checked and double-checked.’

  Cassidy nodded meekly. And when he looked up, she saw that he was crying.

  Joe felt he needed a drink and he didn’t really want to drink alone. That was the first step down the slippery slope, as his mother used to say. Emily had hinted earlier on that she wouldn’t mind joining him for a quick drink after work, but as eight o’clock came and went, he suspected that she’d probably want to get back to Jeff and the kids. During the investigation, they were seeing precious little of her.

  However, he was wrong. It was Emily who suggested a visit to the Cross Keys before heading for their respective homes. She needed to get away from the incident room so that she could think without the distraction of underlings bleating ma’am, ma’am in her ear, needing her permission for something or her signature on some form. Or simply her approval for some little piece of initiative.

  As they walked side by side to the pub they hardly spoke. They were both thinking about the day’s developments … and Cassidy’s arrest. Natalie Parkes had harboured darker secrets than your average schoolgirl. When Cassidy had described her as a wild child, he had been spot on.

  Emily stopped suddenly when they reached the narrow alleyway leading to the pub. ‘I enjoyed seeing that Cassidy wriggling like that. Bloody sex-mad hypocrite,’ she said with a hint of venom.

  Her glee at Cassidy’s fall from grace seemed rather excessive, almost as though it was personal. ‘You really don’t approve of schools like Hicklethorpe Manor, do you?’ he said, watching her face carefully.

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘When I asked you the other day, you never told me why.’

  She looked away. ‘If you must know, my parents paid for my sister to go to the best private school in town and I was sent to the local comp.’

  Joe guessed that, even after all these years, her sister’s preferential treatment still rankled. ‘It didn’t do you any harm though, did it, boss?’

  ‘How the hell do you know? I might have made Chief Constable by now.’

  ‘So what does your sister do?’ he asked, expecting to hear tales of a great and glorious career.

  ‘Oh she went completely off the rails. Got into drugs in a big way and last I heard she was living in some commune in Devon.’

  Emily sounded bitter about her sister’s fate; sad even. Perhaps it had been the exclusive school that had started her sister on the path of self-destruction. Perhaps she’d made the wrong kind of friends there. But the expression on her face told him that it was something she didn’t want to discuss.

  Joe let the subject drop. They made their way down the little alley and when they reached the half-timbered pub at the end he held the door open for her as she swept in.

  ‘Do you think Cassidy and Derby are involved in the murders?’ Emily said when they were settled at a table in the corner with their drinks. She had ordered a red wine – a large one – and she drank it down thirstily while Joe savoured his pint of Black Sheep.

  ‘Maybe they got bored with their little sex games and upped the stakes to murder,’ he suggested. ‘Or maybe Natalie threatened to give away the headmaster’s little secret. Maybe they killed her to shut her up.’

  ‘And Abigail?’

  ‘Perhaps that was to throw us off the scent. Derby wrote a book which included a section on the original Doll Strangler murders.’

  ‘But he claims he never knew about the mutilations.’

  ‘Believe him?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I had a look through the notes he made when he was researching his book and I couldn’t see any mention of severed toes. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t find out about them somehow.’

  ‘And what about that Polly Myers? Where does she come into all this? I suppose it is a bit odd that she seems to have changed her name.’ She looked him in the eye, a slight smirk on her lips. ‘She couldn’t be one of the Stallion Club girls, could she?’

  Joe felt his cheeks redden. ‘I doubt it. She certainly wasn’t on the DVD.’ At one stage he’d been tempted to tell Emily about her resemblance to Kaitlin, but he’d thought better of it. If Emily knew she might begin to question his objectivity.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right and she needs a closer look. Using a false name. Not opening the door to the police after the first murder. And now she’s done a runner.’

  ‘Gone to stay with a friend. It’s hardly the same thing. You can’t blame her for wanting to get away from that place.’

  He saw Emily watching him, eyes narrowed. ‘Sounds as if you fancy her. You’re not letting your loins cloud your judgement, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said too quickly, eager for a change of subject. ‘Anyway we’d better think about the case. What else have we got?’

  ‘We’re seeing Albert Jervis tomorrow. The matron at the nursing home said not to arrive too early, which suits me fine. Things might have come in overnight. Then we’ll have to find his daughter, Bridget. If her shop’s the source of the dolls used in the murder … All patrols are looking out for her.’

  ‘TV appeal?’

  Emily shook her head. ‘Not yet. That’s a last resort. Anyone else?’

  ‘Chris Strange?’

  ‘Can’t really see it myself. And his alibi for Abi Emson’s murder has been checked – he was in his student house with all his house mates at the relevant time and the officer who went round was sure they were telling the truth.’

  Joe frowned. There was something else. Something they hadn’t really given much thought to because of the urgency of the Singmass Close case. ‘There’s still been no word on this missing girl, Michele Carden.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising. She’ll be down in London like your Maddy. That’s where she said she was going. The Met are still on the lookout for her but it’s a big place.’ She drained her glass and sat staring at it for a few moments as though willing it to fill up again by magic. ‘That other girl who went missing … Leanne Williams. She wanted to be a model too and she was last seen at Eborby Station.’

  ‘It’s where the trains to London go from. No mystery there.’

  Emily shrugged and Joe knew he was probably right. Two silly girls who, with any luck, wou
ld return from the smoke with their tails between their legs, older and hopefully wiser.

  ‘I’d better get home,’ said Emily, looking at the clock behind the bar.

  Joe stood and picked up the briefcase he’d brought with him. It was heavy; full of files.

  ‘I’m going to go through more of those old files on the nineteen-fifties case tonight. See if there’s anything we’ve missed.’

  ‘Rather you than me. I’m going home to one of Jeff ’s spag bols – he’s not a bad cook when it’s the school holidays and he sets his mind to it.’

  ‘Still having to set an extra place for the imaginary friend?’

  ‘At least she doesn’t make a mess.’ Emily picked up her bag reluctantly.

  Joe followed Emily out of the pub, wondering whether he should stop off at Singmass Close on the off chance to see whether Polly had returned home. Perhaps if he asked her straight out about her change of name, she’d tell him. But she’d told a neighbour she’d be away for a few days: he should forget it for now. And yet as he walked home another encounter with Polly seemed more attractive by the moment.

  When he passed beneath Canons Bar, however, his mobile rang. And when he answered it, he heard Maddy’s voice on the other end.

  ‘She’s an old lady and you’re bloody drugging her. Your own bloody mother. For God’s sake, Mum, what have you been giving her?’

  Michele couldn’t quite catch the reply from where she stood on the landing but she could just make out the higher pitch of Sylvia’s wheedling voice, drifting upwards from the living room.

  The man’s voice, however, was clear and angry. He was cross with Sylvia, presumably about her treatment of Alice. Michele now knew that he was Barry and Sylvia’s son, but she hadn’t been told his name and she hadn’t seen him since they’d met in the hall. He had kept out of her way, which suited her fine.

  She heard his voice again. ‘And who’s that girl, Michele? Where did she come from?’

  Michele stood quite still and listened carefully. If he had to ask the question it meant that he had played no part in what had happened to her and she wondered how Sylvia would explain how she came to be there.

  ‘I need someone to look after Alice and the house. I can’t cope on my own,’ Sylvia answered, sounding like a petulant child.

  ‘Did you get her from an agency or what? Knowing you, you won’t be paying her much.’

  As Michele strained to hear the reply she suddenly saw a chink of hope in the darkness. If this man had no idea how she’d been treated, then he might not know about the body in the freezer. He might even be an ally, someone she could confide in. Someone who might even help her get away. But she didn’t know whether to take the risk.

  ‘I spent it all on your bloody defence. Every bloody penny.’ She heard Sylvia’s words come out in a whine.

  ‘That and that bloody car. And the clothes. Got to keep up the image, haven’t you, Mum.’ Michele could hear the sneering sarcasm in his voice. ‘So come on, how did you find that girl?’

  Michele couldn’t make out the answer. But something told her it wouldn’t be honest.

  ‘And what happened to the money from the sale of Gran’s house? You and Dad have power of attorney, I take it? Wouldn’t do to get your own hands dirty, would it? And it certainly wouldn’t do to spend Gran’s money on a decent nursing home.’

  ‘I told you.’ Sylvia’s voice was rising to the point of hysteria. ‘Everything we had went on your defence. We got into terrible debt and if it wasn’t for your gran’s money … You’ve no idea what we’ve been through. No idea at all.’

  The living-room door opened suddenly and Michele stepped backwards into the shadows. She was carrying the bin containing Alice’s used incontinence pads and as she held it to her chest, she caught the pungent whiff of ammonia. But she knew she mustn’t move. She mustn’t draw attention to the fact that she was there, listening.

  The man stood framed in the doorway. Michele couldn’t see his face. ‘I’m leaving. I need to see my wife,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t even know where she is.’

  ‘I’ll find her.’

  ‘Please, Gordon, listen to me. She didn’t want to know you when you were convicted. It’s not worth the risk.’

  He stepped out into the hall. Sylvia was clinging to his arm. She looked desperate. The desperation of a mother whose son was about to embark on something dangerous.

  ‘She’s my wife. I’ve got to talk to her, explain things. And you still haven’t answered my question about Gran. What are you giving her?’

  The pair moved to the kitchen and Michele couldn’t make out the reply. But she had discovered two important facts. The son, Gordon, knew that Alice was being drugged to keep her compliant. And he didn’t seem to have any idea about the girl in the ice.

  If Michele could arrange to see him alone, perhaps she could make him aware of some home truths.

  Maddy had sounded cheerful on the phone. Positively ebullient and excited for the future. Joe had gritted his teeth and tried to share her enthusiasm. But when the call was ended he felt drained. Keeping up the pretence was a tiring business.

  He felt depressed as he strolled slowly back to his flat, forcing himself to think about the case. Natalie Parkes had thought she was clever and had got burned … like many people who fly too close to the flames. But was her death a result of risks she took? Or had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time as Abigail Emson had so obviously been?

  Abigail, unlike Natalie, had led a seemingly blameless life. She’d worked hard and had a boyfriend back home. All the people she knew at university said she was a nice, straightforward girl who’d had nothing whatsoever in common with Natalie Parkes. Or maybe Abigail too had a secret life that she’d managed to conceal from everyone who knew her. Joe wasn’t counting anything out at this stage.

  When he entered his flat he closed the door and stood for a few seconds in the dark, heavy silence before flicking on the light. As he took off his coat and flung it onto the hook, he toyed with the idea of calling Maddy back. But he couldn’t face hearing the elation in her voice again as the prospect of triumph opened up ahead of her.

  He examined his appearance in the hall mirror. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes and the two grey hairs he’d spotted at his temples that morning seemed to have multiplied during the day. Pressure of work, he supposed. Things would improve if and when they got the killer behind bars. He ran his fingers around the waistband of his trousers. He’d lost weight. If he told Emily, she’d be jealous.

  He took a chicken korma from the freezer and shoved it in the microwave before helping himself to a bottle of Theakstons from his well-stocked stash in the sideboard and putting some music on the CD player. He was in no mood for heavy metal tonight. He needed something to feed the soul so he chose a Thomas Tallis mass and sat back with his eyes shut, letting the music engulf him. Kaitlin had sung Renaissance and early music in her university choir and they’d met when she had sung at the church he’d been posted to. From the moment he saw her and heard her singing Tallis’s complex harmonies, he’d known that a life of celibacy was out of the question.

  Whenever he listened to Kaitlin’s music he felt close to her and he concentrated on remembering her every feature, every gesture. But after a while Kaitlin’s face became Polly’s. So alike but somehow different. Polly wasn’t Kaitlin. Kaitlin was dead. He’d never see her again in this life.

  He opened his eyes and sat up, breaking the spell. He had work to do. And work would banish the dark thoughts.

  At least Maddy’s absence allowed him to give the case his full attention. He’d brought some of the files from the 1950s home to read at his leisure and he emptied them out on the coffee table where they sat, emitting the faint odour of musty paper. He poured himself another beer, opened the top file and began to flick through the papers.

  He reread statements and reports but he found nothing new.

  The name Caleb Selly cropped up regul
arly. Peter Crawthwaite had given Selly a cast-iron alibi for the first murder and, as far as the next three deaths were concerned, the police could prove nothing against him.

  He opened another file, assuming that it would probably be more of the same. But as he read through the papers he realised he hadn’t seen them before and he started to feel the thrill of the chase. This was new information. And there was a chance – admittedly a small one – that it could be important.

  The report was dated just over a year before the first murder. A young woman had been attacked in Singmass Close on her way home from a friend’s house but the CID at the time had seemed rather slow in linking it to the later, more serious crimes.

  One dark evening in January 1953, when the nation was looking forward to the coronation of its new Queen, a young married woman had been hurrying home after visiting a friend who lived south of the river. She lived in a terraced house not far from the city walls, on the other side of Andrewgate, and she’d taken a short cut through Singmass Close.

  She’d just passed under the arch into the close when her attacker leaped out from the shadows of the medieval chapel and put something around her neck. She’d fought for her life and she’d even managed to scream but eventually she’d passed out and awoke to find an off-duty policeman kneeling by her side. He’d disturbed her attacker and, almost certainly, saved her life. As well as signs of attempted strangulation, her attacker had taken off one of her shoes and had hacked at her big toe until it was almost severed. She was taken to hospital where the toe had to be amputated.

  The young woman’s attacker had never been found and the attitude in those days was that she should just be grateful to be alive. There was no counselling, no victim support. She’d had to get on with life and bringing up her young daughter.

  The music had finished by the time Joe put the file down and he sat in the resulting silence, lost in thought. The woman had been in her early twenties when she was attacked so there was a good chance she’d still be alive.

  He had her name and her last address so surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to track her down.