Playing with Bones

by Kate Ellis

  ‘Aye,’ was the only reply. Jervis was giving nothing away.

  ‘What happened to Caleb?’ Emily asked.

  Joe awaited the answer. Caleb Selly was starting to intrigue him.

  ‘I gave him a reference, like, but I don’t know what he did after I’d moved on. Like I say, he weren’t much good with the customers. As far as I know he stayed in Eborby.’ He raised his hand as though he’d just remembered something. ‘And he got married just before I left. Though I’m surprised any woman’d go for him. No accounting for taste, is there. I heard he had a kid and all.’

  ‘A kid?’

  ‘Aye. I think his name was Brian. Or was it Barry? Some’at like that, anyroad. I think I must have heard it from the wife and it went in one ear and out the other, know what I mean?’ His eyes met Joe’s conspiratorially.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ said Emily. ‘Caleb married just before you parted company?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. I didn’t know the girl, mind. I remember the wife saying she was a good bit older than him. Probably desperate.’

  Joe looked sideways at Emily before saying what he knew was on both their minds. ‘So Caleb Selly got married around the time the killings stopped. Do you have any photographs of him?’ Joe asked. It was a long shot but it was worth a try.

  But their luck was in. ‘Aye. I reckon I might have.’

  They waited while Jervis made his way back to his room at a snail’s pace with the help of his walking frame and the large nurse. After what seemed like an age staring at the plants in the conservatory, the old man returned with a battered photograph album slung in a string bag, which dangled from the walking frame.

  When he sat down again he turned the pages of the album until he found the black-and-white photograph he was looking for. A young Albert Jervis was standing proudly surrounded by dolls and – more bizarrely – an array of small disembodied limbs and heads. Standing by him was a tall young man with a small beard, over-large features and a prominent birthmark covering his left cheek. His mouth was slightly open, giving him a blank appearance.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Jervis, prodding a gnarled finger at the image on the page. ‘That’s Caleb. But it couldn’t have been him, could it? I mean he were with Peter Crawthwaite when the first one were killed.’

  ‘Can we take this picture?’ Emily asked sweetly. ‘We’ll let you have it back.’

  Jervis considered the question. ‘Aye. Mind you do.’ ‘And if Bridget gets in touch will you tell her to contact me urgently,’ said Joe, placing his card in the old man’s hand.

  As they stood up to leave Jervis spoke again. ‘I were glad to get out of Singmass Close, I’ll tell you that for nowt. Some people reckoned it were haunted. Some people said they used to see kiddies, you know – little lads and lasses all in ragged clothes. And people used to say they felt little hands clinging to ’em when they walked through in the dark. Not that I ever saw owt myself, but there was something not right about that place.’

  Joe and Emily said nothing. The killer who operated in Singmass Close was very much of this world and not the next. They took their leave and fifteen minutes later, they were eating fish and chips on the quayside, watching the fishing boats chugging into the harbour.

  ‘So what did you think of Albert?’ Joe asked after a long period of appreciative, silent consumption of the best fish and chips he had tasted in a long while.

  Emily munched on a sliver of crispy batter while she considered the question. ‘He’d have had no trouble getting mhold of those dolls. But how do we prove anything after all this time? And if he did do the original murders …’

  ‘There’s no evidence that he did.’

  ‘True. But if he did do the original ones, there’s no way he could have killed Natalie Parkes and Abigail Emson.’

  ‘What about Bridget? Why has she gone missing? It looks suspicious, don’t you think?’

  ‘Do you see this as a woman’s crime, Joe? Cos I don’t.’

  ‘She’s disappeared. She has access to dolls. And if Jervis is our man in the nineteen fifties, maybe she’s only just found out about him being a killer. Maybe it’s sent her over the edge and she’s reliving her father’s crimes.’

  ‘Come on, Joe, we’re clutching at straws here.’

  Joe looked away, out to sea. He knew Emily was right. ‘What about Crawthwaite and Selly?’ she asked. ‘They gave each other alibis.’

  ‘We’ve got Crawthwaite’s address. I’ll pay him a visit when we get back.’

  ‘Good idea. And what about Caleb Selly?’

  ‘Don’t you think Jervis was a bit too quick to point the finger?’

  ‘Mmm. Jervis said the dolls didn’t come from the dolls’ hospital at first. Then he backtracked – said he couldn’t be absolutely sure, which isn’t what he told the police fifty years back. According to his statements, he swore they were nothing to do with him.’

  ‘So what’s the truth?’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind for now.’ She popped the last chip into her mouth. ‘Last time the Doll Strangler killed four women. I reckon he’s not stopped yet.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve asked Jamilla and Jenny to pull out all the stops to find Alice Meadows. And, with any luck, when we find her, we might find Gordon Pledge and all, playing happy families with Grandma.’

  ‘What’ll Alice be able to tell us now that she didn’t tell the police then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Joe said, knowing that all they could do was hope for a miracle.

  CHAPTER 17

  The fish and chips sat heavily on Joe’s stomach as he made his way to the almshouses on Boothgate. He’d eaten too quickly, but then he’d been hungry. He blamed it on the sea air.

  Each little almshouse, built of red Tudor brick with tiny leaded windows and topped by elaborate chimneys, had its occupant’s name printed clearly underneath the doorbell. He pressed Peter Crawthwaite’s, wondering how he had come to end up in these picturesque surroundings. It was one of the questions on his list.

  When the door opened, he was surprised to see a man in a wheelchair looking up at him. The man looked older than his seventy-three years with a shock of white hair and bright-blue eyes shining out of a deeply lined face, and when he invited Joe in, he manoeuvred the wheelchair expertly into the little lounge.

  ‘So what do you want?’ he asked bluntly as Joe sat down.

  ‘I believe your girlfriend, Marion Grant, was murdered in the nineteen fifties.’

  Unless Crawthwaite was a remarkably good actor, the shock on his face couldn’t have been faked. ‘Aye, she was,’ he said softly.

  ‘You were questioned at the time?’

  ‘Aye. Course I were. Me and Marion had had words a couple of days before and …’

  ‘But you had an alibi for her murder. You were with Caleb Selly.’

  Peter Crawthwaite looked away, avoiding Joe’s eyes. Suddenly Joe knew he was on to something.

  ‘You weren’t telling the truth?’ he asked tentatively. He wanted this man to confide in him, not to clam up.

  The tactic seemed to work. Crawthwaite leaned forward in his wheelchair. ‘Look, between you and me … off the record … What would happen if I told you I’d lied back then?’

  Joe considered the question for a few moments. ‘That depends. It was a long time ago. But on the other hand, it was a murder inquiry.’

  Crawthwaite looked disappointed and sat back. Joe sensed that he was anxious to get something off his chest, something that had bothered him for decades. And he hoped he hadn’t spoiled things with his over-officious words. He tried again.

  ‘I take it you didn’t kill Marion?’

  Crawthwaite shook his head. ‘Course I bloody didn’t. I’d never have harmed a hair on Marion’s head. It’s just that …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ said Joe, almost in a whisper.

  Crawthwaite looked him in the eye. ‘OK. I suppose I’d better tell you. Like I said, I had nothing to do with Marion’s murder but I were r
eally worried that I’d be suspected, like. The truth is I had no alibi cos I went home alone and me dad were out so I just panicked. I asked Caleb to say he were with me. Look, I’ve felt bad about it for years. But I don’t know why I should cos I didn’t do it.’

  Joe took a deep breath. This changed everything. It wasn’t only Peter Crawthwaite who had lost an alibi. So had Caleb Selly.

  ‘Do you know where Caleb is now?’ Joe tried to keep the urgency out of his voice.

  ‘Could be six feet under for all I know. Not heard of him for years. Not that I particularly wanted to.’

  ‘Ever heard of Alice Meadows?’

  Crawthwaite shook his head and Joe stood up. His priorities had suddenly changed.

  ‘Is that all?’ Crawthwaite asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes. I think so. Look, thanks for telling me. And I think I can promise you, it won’t go any further.’

  The old man frowned. ‘I heard on the radio the Doll Strangler’s at it again.’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Well I’ve got a bloody good alibi this time.’ He tapped his wheelchair and chuckled. ‘Lost both me legs. I were a forty-a-day man.’

  ‘I take it you’ve given up now?’ ‘Doctor’s orders. Got hooked in the Army.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’s how I got into this cushy billet … old soldier.’

  Joe smiled. ‘Take care,’ he said. But as he closed the door behind him he looked back and saw a look of sheer relief on the old man’s face. As though a huge weight had been lifted from his stooped shoulders.

  Whenever the opportunity presented itself, Michele had started to replace the dishes Sylvia put out for Alice with food eaten by the rest of the household. When she succeeded she certainly noticed a change in the old lady: Alice became lucid and she could even sit up. And she became upset about the incontinence pads, insisting on using a chamber pot that Michele had to empty discreetly down the lavatory.

  But when Alice ate Sylvia’s meals, she reverted to helplessness and the certain knowledge that Sylvia was drugging her roused Michele from the lethargy caused by her powerlessness. Now she had Alice to defend from the machinations of her daughter. For the first time in her life Michele felt responsible for someone else. And this had reawakened her desire to fight.

  She kept looking out of the window, saying a silent prayer to a God she hadn’t believed in since her Sunday School days that help would come. The place was isolated but she clung to that glimmer of hope in the darkness. In the meantime, she had to be on her guard.

  Alice’s stroke might have dragged down one corner of her mouth and made her slur her speech but she certainly wasn’t stupid. She was canny enough to feign sleep when she heard Sylvia or Barry approaching – something they did less and less frequently now that the man they referred to as their son was there. Michele and Alice were left in their own little world … which was how Michele liked it.

  Michele had seen little of Gordon, the son, and she’d had no opportunity to talk to him alone. From time to time, she toyed with the idea of making an effort to find him and telling him what his mother had done. But she knew that would be a huge risk. Who was to say that he hadn’t killed the girl in the freezer himself ? Maybe it was only wishful thinking on her part that he wasn’t an enemy.

  It was almost nine o’clock. Time to settle Alice for the night and lay out the breakfast things before her nightly incarceration. She would put Alice in a fresh incontinence pad and give her her milky drink with the sleeping capsules stirred in to ensure she had a peaceful night. If Alice woke up and disturbed Sylvia it might undo everything she had done. And Michele was terrified of the consequences if her disobedience about Alice’s drugs came to light.

  Despite everything, she was growing fond of Alice. As she entered her bedroom with the tray, she received a lopsided smile from the old lady.

  ‘Here’s your drink, Alice,’ Michele said, trying her best to appear cheerful.

  ‘You come and sit down, dear,’ Alice slurred. ‘I want to tell you something.’

  Michele glanced at the door before placing the tray on the dressing table and perched herself on the edge of the bed. Then Alice beckoned her to come closer and she leaned forward so that the old lady’s pale, parchment, face was close to her ear. This was a secret. Something she didn’t want the whole world to know.

  ‘I nearly got myself murdered once, you know.’

  Michele leaned further forward, wondering what horrifying story this woman was going to tell about her own daughter and her husband. They were certainly capable of anything. The evidence was in the freezer.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He came up behind me and tried to strangle me …’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘He thought he’d managed it and all. I passed out and woke up in the hospital with me toe missing. They’d had to amputate it. They said it was an accident but I know he’d tried to hack it off … take it for a souvenir, like. You should have seen the blood.’

  Michele frowned, puzzled. She’d wondered how Alice had come to lose her toe … but she hadn’t expected the explanation to be so bizarre. Suddenly she wasn’t sure whether she believed the old lady. She might be making the whole thing up to add a touch of drama to her limited life.

  Alice pursed her dry lips together and continued. ‘I wouldn’t dance with him, you see. I told him to get lost.’

  ‘Told who? Who are you talking about, Alice?’

  But Alice was lost in her own little world. ‘Do you think he killed ’em? All strangled, they were. But the papers didn’t mention no toes.’

  Michele took the old lady’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Who are you talking about?’ she repeated. ‘What was his name?’

  A crafty expression appeared on Alice’s face. ‘They said it couldn’t possibly be him.’

  ‘Who?’

  When Alice said the name, Michele was none the wiser. It wasn’t one she recognised.

  She walked over to the window and looked out. Why didn’t someone come to look for her? What had she done to deserve this … apart from having ambitions and dreams?

  ‘So you reckon Peter Crawthwaite’s a non-starter?’ Emily asked.

  ‘I’d say so. He lied because he panicked. He was suspected of his girlfriend’s murder and he was scared stiff, so he asked an acquaintance to say they were together that night.’ He paused for effect. ‘And that acquaintance was Caleb Selly.’

  ‘Who wasn’t suspected because Peter Crawthwaite unwittingly provided him with an alibi as well. We need to find Selly, Joe. As soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that.’

  As if on cue, Sunny Porter barged into Emily’s office with an expression of defeat on his face.

  ‘Can’t find Caleb Selly,’ he announced. ‘No sign.’

  ‘He could be dead,’ Emily said bluntly.

  ‘No record of that either, boss.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s changed his name,’ said Joe quietly. ‘If my name was Caleb, I think I’d change it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You could have a point there,’ Sunny conceded. He leaned forward as though he was about to impart a juicy piece of gossip. ‘But I have found a few Sellys in the area and you know you told me that Albert Jervis thought Caleb had a son called Brian? Well there’s a Brian Selly living in Abbotsthorpe. We could pay him a visit. See if it’s the right one.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Joe. He noticed Emily glancing at her watch. It was getting late and he knew she’d been seeing precious little of her children since the Singmass Close murders began.

  Murders. He contemplated the word, hoping – praying – that the killer wouldn’t have another go. But there was a constant police presence in Singmass Close now so surely he wouldn’t try again. Or maybe he’d just choose another location. That was Joe’s greatest fear.

  ‘We’ll speak to this Brian Selly first thing tomorrow, eh.’

  When Sunny had departed the phone on Emily’s desk rang, shattering the calm
of the office, set apart like Mount Olympus from the bustle of the main incident room.

  She picked up the receiver and listened, rolling her eyes to heaven. ‘The super wants to see me,’ she sighed when the call was ended. ‘He wants another statement to the press, to reassure the public that we’re in control.’

  Joe swore softly under his breath. ‘If you’re going to be tied up with the press, I think I might go and have another chat with some of Natalie Parkes’s mates: see what they know about her extra-curricular activities. I can’t help feeling there could be a link to her murder.’

  ‘That it’s one of the Stallion Club, you mean. All the people on that DVD are being traced. But it’s not easy because some of them used assumed names.’ She smiled. ‘I presume Cassidy’ll be resigning.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think he has much choice. I’ll go and see Karen Strange and then maybe I’ll have a word with Brett Bluit. I’ll take Jamilla.’

  ‘Wish I was coming with you,’ said Emily with a sigh. Joe wished Emily luck with the super. She’d need it.

  The Doll Strangler pushed the newspaper aside.

  He hadn’t been able to find the diary and at first he’d panicked. Then he told himself that he must have put it up in the attic with the other things and forgotten: his memory wasn’t what it was sometimes.

  He kept thinking of those souvenirs he’d kept and how he longed to relive those moments of ultimate power; to find a street lamp so that he could see the victim’s face as she died. It had been too dark to see back then in Singmass Close, in the shadows behind the Ragged School. And there had been the noises, like mice squeaking with delight … and the feel of the cold little fingers on his as he squeezed the life out of her.

  He needed to see the diary and his keepsakes but that meant reaching the attic. It was possible. He could do it if he took it slowly. He dragged his useless body up the stairs. His heart was beating fast – too fast – and the blood was pounding in his ears.

  At last he reached the top and he could see the door to the attic, closed and mysterious like the entrance to a magic cave.

  After pausing to catch his breath, he began to look around for the hook that would bring the ladder down. It was probably in one of the bedrooms. It was just a matter of finding it.