by Kate Ellis
However, Maddy’s good mood owed nothing to police efficiency. An old university friend was coming to stay with her that weekend and Maddy intended to show her the night life of Eborby. But the smile of anticipation on Maddy’s face suddenly vanished. ‘You are being careful with this killer still on the loose? Keep your wits about you, won’t you.’
Carmel nodded, slightly impatient with Maddy’s fussing. ‘So what’s his modus operandi?’ she asked after a few moments. ‘How does he abduct his victims?’ She couldn’t resist asking the question, like a child watching a scary film through splayed fingers – horrified yet somehow fascinated.
Maddy shrugged. ‘The police are keeping quiet about it which makes me think it must be pretty gruesome. Perhaps it’s better not to know, eh?’
Carmel suddenly remembered the white-faced man – the one she called Jack the Ripper – who’d been watching her flat. Perhaps that’s how the killer did it. Perhaps he staked out his victims’ homes and then followed them. A chill went through her body and she felt herself shudder. Should she confide in Maddy? If she told Maddy and anything happened to her …
‘I think a man’s been watching my flat.’ She blurted out the words before she could stop herself.
Maddy looked worried. ‘Why don’t you tell the police?’ ‘And say what?’ Carmel suddenly felt foolish. She was over-reacting.
‘Say someone’s watching your flat.’
Carmel hesitated. ‘My mum called me last night. She’s spoken to an old colleague of my dad’s. Joe Plantagenet – he’s a detective inspector in Eborby. He said I was to call him if I was worried about anything …’
‘So call him. Ask his advice, off the record.’
Carmel thought for a few moments. ‘I haven’t seen him in years … not since I was about fifteen.’ She grinned. ‘He must have been in his early twenties then and I think I had a bit of a crush on him.’
‘Call him. What have you got to lose?’
‘My dignity. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I think it might be the man who leads the ghost tour. They stop outside and he points up to my flat but I don’t know what he’s saying. In fact I thought I might go along tonight to find out. Perhaps it’s not me he’s interested in. Perhaps it’s something to do with the building.’
Maddy touched her arm. ‘I still think you should call this Joe … put your mind at rest. And I’ll tell you what, if you go on the tour tonight, I’ll come with you. Safety in numbers, eh.’
Carmel smiled. ‘I’m up for it if you are.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I spoke to Peta this morning. Not very friendly, is she?’
‘You’re right there. But I think she has a lot on her plate with her son.’
‘How do you mean?’
Maddy leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘He’s ill … been in and out of hospital. Tragic really. That’s why her husband walked out. He couldn’t take it, so I’ve heard.’
Carmel suddenly felt guilty for having judged Peta so harshly. She should have learned long ago never to make assumptions. But she still kept doing it.
A well-dressed couple with a pair of bored-looking children wandered in.
‘Curtain up,’ Maddy whispered before walking over to greet them with a welcoming smile.
Goths. The desk sergeant recognised the species. But these two seemed older than usual. Well into their twenties. They hovered between the front door of the police station and the front desk, conducting a whispered argument. The sergeant had strained to hear but he couldn’t make out what they were saying so he leaned on the desk and assumed a welcoming expression.
‘How do. Can I help you at all?’
The pair turned to face him, their faces blank. Both were dressed from head to toe in black; the woman’s long curtain of black hair half hid her face while the man’s hair stood up in spikes. Their faces were pierced with an assortment of metalware and the woman’s eyes were outlined in kohl, reminding the sergeant of an Egyptian mummy case he’d once seen in a museum.
It was the woman who spoke first. ‘Er … how do we go about reporting someone missing?’ She was surprisingly well spoken, not what the sergeant had expected.
He turned and took a missing persons form from the pigeonholes behind the desk. ‘So who’s missing then?’
‘Someone we work with. She’s not been into work for a few weeks and nobody’s seen her. We went to her flat but she wasn’t there. And she was doing a postgraduate course at the university. We asked her tutor but he said he hasn’t seen her. I mean people don’t just disappear, do they?’
‘You’d be surprised what people do, love. I’m sure she’ll turn up in her own good time,’ the sergeant said. He always told them that. It reassured them and most of the time he was proved absolutely right. ‘If you’d like to give me her details … Name?’
‘Janna Pyke.’
‘Address?’
‘She had a flat on Vicars Green. Not far from the cathedral. But she moved out a few weeks ago and the old guy downstairs didn’t know where she’d gone. He gave us the landlady’s address but she fobbed us off. Said she’d disappeared without paying the rent and the place had been let to someone else.’
‘What about her things? Did she leave them in the flat?’
‘The landlady said she’d left some stuff. She put it up in the loft in case she came back for it.’
The sergeant nodded. If she’d left her possessions, it didn’t sound like a moonlight flit. This fact raised the urgency a few notches. ‘Where does Ms Pyke work?’
The man and woman in black exchanged glances. ‘We all work in the House of Terrors. On Marketgate.’
The sergeant had heard of the House of Terrors. It was Yorkshire’s answer to the Chamber of Horrors in London, only more gory. Not the sort of place he’d encourage his two teenage lads to hang around. Who knew what ideas a place like that could plant in impressionable minds?
‘Right,’ he said with a sigh, his pen poised over the form in front of him. ‘What about friends and family? Or boyfriends? Is there a boyfriend?’
‘She never mentioned her family except to say she didn’t speak to them. And most of her friends seem to be from work.’ The pair in black looked at each other.
‘Something the matter?’
The young man hesitated, as though making a decision. ‘There are a few people she used to hang around with at work who are into …’
The sergeant saw the girl give him a vicious nudge. Whatever he was about to say was something she didn’t want the police to hear. He wondered what it was. Drugs probably.
‘She did have a boyfriend,’ volunteered the girl. ‘But I think they split up a few weeks ago.’
‘Know his name?’
The girl frowned and shook her head. ‘We never met him, did we, Steve?’
The young man shook his head. ‘Never.’
‘She said he was an actor. But I don’t know if he worked at the theatre or …’
‘Well, I’d better take some details. Get her description circulated. You wouldn’t have a photograph by any chance, would you?’
With surprising efficiency, the young man produced a photograph of a group of black-clad young people from his rucksack. He pointed to one of the girls. With her long black hair and facial piercings, she looked remarkably similar to her fellows.
‘We’ll do our best to find her … sir,’ the sergeant said unconvincingly as he began to record the details.
It seemed that Traffic had washed their collective hands of John Wendal and his car that had crashed so dramatically on the Eborby bypass. But there was something odd about the case. There had been no other vehicle involved, as far as they could tell the car had no faults and, according to the doctors, the driver had suffered no heart attack or fit that might have made him lose control.
Then there was the passenger. The as-yet-unidentified woman who was under sedation after trying her best to send the unfortunate Mr Wendal into the next world with a hefty tree branch. Those who had witne
ssed her attempted attack on the unconscious man had dismissed the theory that it was a lovers’ tiff. Even the most volatile of lovers would hardly react with such fear and loathing. Whatever John Wendal had done to the woman, it must have been bad. Unforgivable. And it seemed it was up to CID to find out exactly what it was.
Detective Constable Jamilla Dal had been about to set off for the hospital alone but DI Plantagenet unexpectedly announced that he was going to take a break from the Resurrection Man investigation and come with her. He wanted to see the mystery woman for himself because, according to the medical staff, she was coming out with some pretty strange statements and this had aroused his curiosity.
Wendal’s wife had been informed but she could throw no light on the identity of the mysterious passenger. She was quite sure he wasn’t having an affair. Jack wasn’t that sort of man. She’d sounded as though she believed every word she was saying. Jamilla hadn’t liked to tell her that it wasn’t unknown for people to lead secret lives of which their nearest and dearest knew absolutely nothing. Jamilla was a kind young woman and hadn’t seen the point in causing unnecessary pain.
The staff at the Eborby Permanent Building Society had been interviewed and the picture they had given of their colleague seemed to back up the wife’s statement. John Wendal was a quiet man, devoted to his wife and grown-up daughter. A nice man, interested in DIY, gardening and steam engines – he helped out as a volunteer at the Railway Museum at weekends. A solid citizen, there was no way anybody could see him involved in anything untoward. And as for having a tempestuous affair with a blonde … The idea was risible. Ridiculous.
‘Is she up to speaking to us, do you think?’ Joe asked as he and Jamilla walked down the polished hospital corridor towards the side ward.
‘The doctor says there doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with her apart from a few cuts and bruises. She’s sedated though. He thinks it might be shock.’
‘Most people who are in shock don’t try to murder someone.’ He smiled. ‘But then I’m no expert.’
Jamilla pushed open the door. The sparsely furnished, clinical room was brightly lit. In the bed lay a woman, her dyed blond hair spread out on the pillow like a halo. As she heard them come in, she blinked, as though emerging from a deep sleep and struggled to raise herself. Jamilla hurried over to the bed and arranged her pillows so that she could sit.
‘You a doctor?’ she said, staring Joe in the eye. ‘I keep telling them I’m all right. I need to get home. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Where is home, Mrs … er …?’
The woman’s lips twisted upwards in a cunning grin.
‘You won’t catch me out. You’re one of them, aren’t you?
You and her.’ She pointed a plump finger at Jamilla.
Joe studied her face and realised that the fear in her eyes was genuine. He took his ID from his pocket and held it up for her to see. ‘I’m a police officer. Detective Inspector Joe Plantagenet and this is Detective Constable Jamilla Dal. We’re trying to find out how you came to be travelling in a car with Mr John Wendal and what exactly happened to cause the car to crash.’
At the mention of Wendal’s name, the woman’s body stiffened and her eyes widened with fear. Jamilla and Joe looked at each other. Whatever this apparently respectable husband, father and pillar of the Eborby Permanent Building Society had done, it must have been something truly terrible.
Joe sat down on a chair by the bed and motioned Jamilla to do the same. ‘We’re sorry to upset you, but we have to ask you some questions. Can you tell us your name?’
The woman clutched at the white sheet that covered her, her tense hands like twisted talons. She gave Joe a sly look and shook her head.
‘Can you remember where you live?’
Silence.
‘Do you remember anything about last night? About the crash? How did you come to be in the car with Mr Wendal?’
‘I’m not saying.’
‘Why not?’
The woman looked Joe in the eye. ‘Because he sent you.’
‘If you mean Mr Wendal, I have to tell you that he’s still unconscious. He’s in no position to send anyone anywhere. His wife’s with him.’ He paused, watching the woman’s face. ‘Did you know he was married?’
She began to laugh, a mirthless chuckle. ‘Of course he’s not married. How can he be married? Now I know you’re lying. Get out.’
‘Is that why you attacked him?’ Jamilla asked. ‘Did he tell you he was married and he wanted to end your relationship?’
She pointed an accusing finger at Jamilla. ‘You think you’re being so clever, don’t you? But I knew who he was. That’s why I had to kill him. I knew who he was and what he wanted. It was him or me.’
‘What did he want?’ Joe asked softly.
The woman looked him in the eye, a smile playing around her lips. ‘You know bloody well what he wanted but he’s not getting it.’
‘What do you mean? What was it he wanted?’
Jamilla sat forward, her notebook to the ready, braced to hear a harrowing tale of sexual violence.
But instead the woman calmly said, ‘My soul. He wanted my soul,’ before closing her eyes and sinking back on her pillows.
The sound echoed in the silence. The key turning and the padlock falling to the floor. Then the metallic slithering of the chains on the wood, clanking like Marley’s ghost as gravity hauled them downwards.
The killer stood and listened. No noise. It was done. Finished.
He didn’t like the way they smelled when he opened the lid. But he liked to see their faces. As their souls left their bodies they saw their future. They received a vision of their destination; the final realisation that their actions had dire and eternal consequences. As they died, their bowels emptied and their flesh began to rot. That’s why he wore the mask over his face when he went to seek them. And the overalls to protect his clothes and body. Everything had to be done properly. It was necessary. It was his duty.
He put a shaking hand out to touch the lid. The first time he’d seen what was inside he had vomited on to the ground, the acid contents of his stomach burning the back of his throat. But now he found he was almost looking forward to the sight of the face contorted in terror.
His tongue moistened his dry lips as he anticipated the moment. Then, with a sudden burst of effort, he reached forward, grabbed hold of the lid and lifted it up.
And with a groan of satisfaction, he beheld his handiwork.
Chapter Three
According to the posters, the ghost tour began at the side of the cathedral. By the south door. Seven thirty on the dot every night except Sundays and bank holidays. The sun was low now but it still shone on the stones of the cathedral making the building glow like some huge source of warmth and light. Carmel had decided to wear jeans and a T-shirt. And to take a cardigan in case it became chilly as the evening wore on. The posters mentioned that the tour lasted just over an hour and she wondered whether it would be an hour well spent or a complete waste of time. But she was meeting Maddy there so at least she’d have some company.
She hadn’t phoned Joe Plantagenet. In the end she’d felt embarrassed about contacting a man she hadn’t seen in years and who’d once been the object of her schoolgirl crush, so she’d put it off. And now she had plans for the evening, her fears and misgivings were fading. She’d wait and see.
She told herself that it would be good to learn a little more about her adopted city. She knew about the archaeological evidence and what the history books had told her: she knew how it had been the site of a Roman legionary headquarters before being settled by the Vikings and she was familiar with its role as a staunch supporter of the Yorkist cause during the Wars of the Roses. If you dug a hole anywhere in Eborby you’d find some evidence of the past. But she wasn’t well versed on the hidden history. The ghosts that haunted the city’s labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys. The soul of Eborby.
When she thought of the break-in at he
r flat she felt uneasy, even though Peta Thewlis had assured her that the locks had been changed. As she’d left she’d tested the flat door to make sure it was locked behind her and she’d checked that all the windows were shut – even though it was a warm night and she would have liked to have left them open, you couldn’t be too careful. She had seen nothing of Conrad Peace that evening, although she had heard the faint sound of voices drifting up from his flat: his TV probably. Maybe she would call in on him again soon, just to make sure he was all right.
She walked slowly towards the cathedral. It had stood for centuries, a thing of beauty and power, and Carmel felt under its protection as she neared the south door. After a few moments she spotted Maddy trotting towards her, waving.
‘Is that him?’ Maddy pointed to a small crowd of people clustered around a tall man in black who stood beneath an ornate Victorian lamp post at the edge of the cathedral square.
‘I think so,’ she replied as they slipped in behind a pair of large American tourists, trying to look inconspicuous.
Close up in daylight the man she’d come to think of as Jack the Ripper didn’t look at all fearsome. She had only seen him from a distance before and now she took the opportunity to study him, trying not to make her interest too obvious. She wondered whether he’d recognise her. But if he did, he showed no sign of it.
He was a lot younger than she’d imagined, with a shock of fair hair and a long, unnaturally pale face that never broke into a smile. The cloak and the black top hat gave him a funereal look – but that was probably the intention.
He stood quite still while his audience gathered, his cloak held tightly around him, his eyes to the ground, looking like a great, sleeping bat. Once a sizeable party had mustered there on the stone flags, he looked up, turning his head slowly, studying the faces. Carmel felt relieved that he betrayed no sign of recognition as his gaze rested on her. It was as if the sight of her meant nothing to him; she was just another punter.
Suddenly he spread out his arms and the cloak flapped like the wings of some giant crow. ‘Welcome,’ he boomed. ‘This evening I will take you into another dimension. Eborby’s secret parallel world.’
