by Kate Ellis
She swung round and she knew at once that something was wrong from the expression on Tavy McNair’s face.
‘Have you heard the news?’ he said, stepping forward.
‘What news?’
‘They’ve found a woman’s body. It sounds like her. It sounds like Janna.’
Carmel took Tavy firmly by the arm and marched him towards the nearest pub. He looked as though he needed a drink. So much for her lunchtime exercise.
It wasn’t until they were settled with beer and sand-wiches that Tavy spoke again in a hushed whisper as though he didn’t want to be overheard. ‘It said on the radio that the body of a dark-haired woman in her early twenties had been found in Evanshaw. In the churchyard.’
‘The Resurrection Man?’
‘I knew something bad had happened to her. I just knew.’
‘It might not be her.’
‘She fits the description – height, colouring … everything.’
‘If you think that you should go to the police.’
He opened his mouth to protest.
‘I saw that policeman I mentioned. Joe Plantagenet. He’s an old colleague of my dad’s. You could talk to him. He’s OK. Honestly.’
Tavy looked doubtful. ‘I can’t tell him anything,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t know what Janna got up to after we split up.’ He hesitated. ‘But I know she used to go to that pub a lot – the Black Hen. Will you come there with me?’
‘Why? If you think she’s dead, what’s the point?’
‘I need to know what happened to her. Please. Come with me tonight.’
‘What’s the point? You should leave it to the police. Talk to Joe.’
‘If we find something then we can talk to him. But if we don’t, he won’t thank you for wasting his time. Please.’
Carmel looked at him. It was only a trip to a pub, she told herself. And there was something about his large, pleading eyes that made her say yes against her better judgement.
Sometimes, she told herself, she was too soft for her own good.
‘One of her mates from that House of Terrors has identified her. It’s definitely Jane Pyke … alias Janna.’
DS Sunny Porter looked pleased with himself. Knowing the victim’s identity might not be much help if the Resurrection Man chose his victims at random but you never knew your luck. With the building society connection there might just be some purpose to the campaign of slaughter after all. Someone who’d had their house repossessed by the Eborby Permanent was Sunny’s favourite theory until a better one came along. ‘The next of kin’ll have to be informed,’ he said.
Emily Thwaite nodded. She looked as if there was still something on her mind other than the case. But she was new, Sunny thought. Perhaps she was always like this in the middle of an investigation. Maybe she liked time to think.
‘Local lads are going over to the address the university gave us to break the bad news as we speak, ma’am.’
Emily looked up. ‘Thanks, Sunny. You and Jamilla get down to this House of Terrors with a few uniforms. I want all the staff interviewed … yesterday. And send someone over to the university as well … the Medieval History Department near the cathedral. I want anyone who ever knew her questioned. Her tutor said he saw her two weeks ago … a week or so after she did a moonlight flit from her flat in Vicars Green and left her job at the House of Terrors. I think she was afraid of something and lying low somewhere. But what and where? We’ve got to find out.’
‘If she was lying low, why did she go to the university?’
Emily looked away. ‘Don’t ask me. Perhaps her research was important to her and she thought she’d risk it. That’s what we need to know.’ She stood up. ‘You’d better get a move on.’
‘Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am, three bags full, ma’am,’ Sunny muttered under his breath.
‘If I’m needed I’ll be in my office,’ she said before sweeping out of the main incident room. She needed space. And she needed to phone home.
When she reached her office she shut the door behind her and sat down at her desk, taking a deep, calming breath. Then she picked up the phone and hesitated, the hand holding the receiver hovering in midair. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to make that particular call from work. There were some conversations that she couldn’t risk being overheard. Perhaps she should wait until she got home. Something like this had to be discussed face to face. Besides, through the glass window of her office, she could see Joe Plantagenet marching purposefully up the corridor, heading her way. She put the handset down and pretended to study some papers, her heart thumping against her ribs – she just hoped nobody could hear it.
After the swiftest of knocks, the door opened and Joe entered. He sat down in the chair by Emily’s desk, making himself comfortable. Emily took another deep breath and told herself to relax. Act normally.
‘The vicar of St Oswald’s was at the church yesterday evening,’ Joe began. ‘There was certainly no body there then. He’ll swear to that on a stack of Bibles. At least this means we can rule out John Wendal as he was in a coma at the time.’
‘Doesn’t necessarily mean Wendal’s in the clear. He might have done the dirty deed and got an accomplice to dispose of the body.’
‘Who? His wife? She’s been at his bedside all the time.’
‘His mate from the Railway Society? Perhaps they were into more than engines.’
‘He’s away on holiday. And it’s true. I had it checked out. The Algarve.’
‘Nice. Maybe there’s someone else. Someone we don’t know about. Someone his wife doesn’t know about. Remember that leaflet about the House of Terrors. I think it’s time we went and had a look at the place.’
‘Sunny and Jamilla have just gone over there to question the staff.’
Emily stood up. ‘That doesn’t stop us poking our noses in. That place has got to have something to do with all this business.’ Her eyes flicked towards the telephone.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Of course I’m all right. I’m fine.’
Joe sensed that something was bothering her but if she chose not to share it with him, there wasn’t much he could do about it.
She slung her bag on to her shoulder. ‘Coming?’
He could see she was determined so he didn’t try to argue and followed her out of the police station into the traffic-fume-laden air. The House of Terrors was within walking distance and today Emily claimed that she fancied the exercise so they set off down the main road towards Marketgate, crossing the river and turning right into the pedestrianised city centre. It was another sunny day, the eighth in succession, which was probably some sort of record.
Housed in a Victorian red-brick building just outside the medieval heart of the city, the House of Terrors looked rather like a public library and the legend above the door, carved proudly into the decorative brickwork, declared that this had been the building’s original function. Now discreet name plates at the side of the entrance indicated that the upper floors were used as offices. It was only the basement that had been given over to horror. Joe followed the arrows that pointed down to the depths and Emily followed close behind, not quite sure what to expect.
A massive, polished mahogany counter blocked the entrance. The ticket desk Janna Pyke had once manned. It looked as if it had once been the bar of some nineteenth-century pub, reclaimed for a more sinister use. Joe flashed a smile and his ID at the young woman behind the counter, dressed, like Janna, in the uniform of the Goth. But her face needed no pale make-up. She looked drained and shaken.
‘They’re all in the torture chamber,’ she said matter-offactly in a friendly-sounding broad Yorkshire accent, which rather ruined the effect.
‘Who are?’ The last thing Joe wanted was to intrude on a ghoul’s convention.
‘Your lot. The police. They’ve just turned up mob handed. We’ve had to close to the public. Mr Jevons isn’t pleased, you know.’
‘Mr Jevons?’
‘He runs the place. H
e’s not pleased,’ she repeated, as though emphasising the depth of Mr Jevons’s displeasure.
‘You knew Janna Pyke?’ Emily asked.
‘Course I did. It was Steve and I who went to the police station and reported her missing. I knew something wasn’t right. I can tell these things.’ She paused, looking as if she was about to be sick. ‘Me and Steve, we’ve just been to the hospital to identify her. It was awful … I don’t know how anyone can …’
Joe suddenly took pity on her. ‘Are you sure you should be here? You look …’
‘I’m fine,’ she said bravely. ‘I just hope you catch the bastard and it’s not going to help anyone if I sit round moping, is it.’ She hesitated. ‘Is it the same as the others? Is it that Resurrection Man?’
‘I’m afraid it looks that way. Is there anything you can tell me about …’
‘I’ve given a statement already. Told ’em everything I know which isn’t much.’ She leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. ‘Like I said to the other one, you want to be looking at the Black Hen. And Mr Jevons. And there’s a couple of others too. Hetty Bowles and James Waters. You should be asking them what goes on there.’
Joe glanced at Emily. This was just the sort of witness they needed. ‘Thanks for the hint,’ he said smoothly. ‘Mind if we …’ He waved a casual hand towards the House of Terrors’ entrance.
‘Help yourself. Torture chamber second on your left. Can’t miss it.’
They followed the young woman’s directions and eventually found themselves in a cavernous room, teeming with police officers who were taking statements from black-clad House of Terrors personnel, scattered in pairs. With dim, dramatic lighting and blood-curdling sound effects the torture chamber might have struck fear into the heart of the unsuspecting tourist. But in the cold light of the fluorescent striplights on the ceiling, with the low hum of conversation filling the room, the bloodstained waxwork dummies of the tortured and their sweating, gloating tormentors wielding unspeakable instruments of pain looked exactly what they were – stage props, tawdry and roughly constructed. Joe strode towards the rack where Sunny Porter was taking a statement, his notebook propped up on the wax torso of the naked man stretched out, awaiting the attentions of the executioner.
Sunny was talking to a tall dark man with a small pointed beard. Joe guessed he was in his forties and his once-honed body had begun to run to flab. But there was a power about the man, a presence. Joe thought he saw hostility in his eyes, perhaps even contempt. Certainly not grief.
‘This is Mr Terry Jevons, sir,’ Sunny said as soon as he had spotted Joe. ‘He runs this place. He says he hasn’t seen Janna Pyke for over three weeks. Not since she last turned up for work.’
Jevons smiled, a mirthless grimace. ‘That’s right. I’ve not seen her since then.’
‘Know a place called the Black Hen?’ It was Emily Thwaite who spoke, a hint of challenge in her voice.
Jevons glanced at her impatiently. ‘It’s a pub. What about it?’
‘Did Janna go there?’
Jevons shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘Sometimes.’
Emily stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the man’s face. ‘We’d like to ask you some more questions. Is there somewhere more private we can talk?’
‘My office. It’s this way.’ He didn’t sound pleased but he led the way out of the crowded room. Joe and Emily followed him, leaving Sunny to look for another victim. They’d compare notes later.
When they reached Jevons’s surprisingly well appointed office at the back of the building he invited them to take a seat. He looked uncomfortable and Joe wondered why. But at least he was going through the motions of cooperation to keep them happy.
‘What can you tell us about Janna Pyke?’ Joe began. Emily sat behind him, listening intently.
‘She was at the university here doing an MA. She was originally from Leeds but she’d done her first degree at Manchester. She worked here part time. We employ a lot of students. They work the hours that suit them in the week and fill in at weekends and holidays when we’re busy.’
‘All Goths are they?’
‘They have to look the part. Wouldn’t do to see Mary Poppins in a House of Terrors, would it?’ He smirked. ‘Some of them are Goths, some just dress up for the occasion.’
‘Janna?’
There was a long pause. Then his lips twitched upwards in a secretive smile. ‘She was the real thing.’
Joe suddenly noticed something that looked like a business card next to the telephone on the desk. A triangle in a circle, topped by a half circle. Horns. He had seen the same symbol before. In Gloria Simpson’s strange room. He glanced at Emily and saw that she had noticed it too. She raised her eyebrows a little and nodded to him to continue.
‘Anybody here into the occult? Black magic?’
Joe saw a brief flash of panic in Jevons’s eyes, soon suppressed. ‘Don’t know,’ he answered, too casually.
‘Do you know a woman called Gloria Simpson?’
‘Can’t say I do.’ The flicker of recognition in his eyes told Joe and Emily that he was lying.
‘Does the name Jack Wendal mean anything to you?’
There was no mistaking it. The small eyes widened for a split second. ‘No,’ was the emphatic reply. ‘Who is he?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Emily. ‘What about the Black Hen? What goes on there?’
‘Drinking. It’s a pub.’ He smirked unpleasantly, his eyes on Emily’s ample breasts. ‘You should come some time.’
Emily pressed her lips together. She was in no mood for playing games. ‘Tell us what happened when you last saw Janna Pyke.’
‘We cashed up. She said goodnight and left me to lock up.’
‘Anyone else around?’
‘Can’t remember. It was just an ordinary night.’
‘Except that she never showed up to work again.’
‘Look, I don’t know anything. I told that other cop. I’ve not seen her since that night. Right?’
Emily stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Jevons. We’ll be in touch.’
She marched out of the office and Joe followed.
‘What’s the matter?’ he whispered to Emily as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘He was lying. I could tell. We should have put more pressure on him. You saw that symbol on the desk … the same one we saw in Gloria Simpson’s flat …?’
‘Yes, but I think we should leave him for now … make him sweat.’ She was hurrying down the corridor, making for the entrance. ‘Look, I’ve got a terrible headache, Joe. Cover for me, will you?’
‘OK,’ he said as he watched her disappear through the door. But somehow he knew that she was lying … just like Jevons had been.
Chapter Eight
Gloria Simpson’s address book was hardly filled with the names of devoted friends and family. Most of the entries were acquaintances, tradesmen or work contacts. There were two cousins who’d been eager to emphasise that they hadn’t seen her for years and an ex-husband who had moved on to pastures new. He stated that his former partner was decidedly weird and seemed reluctant to elaborate any further.
DC Jamilla Dal, who came from a close and loyal family, found herself feeling a deep pity for Gloria Simpson – a sadness almost akin to pain. She considered that the woman who had attacked John Wendal must have led a lonely and empty existence and perhaps, in the end, it had been that pointless emptiness that had driven Gloria over the edge.
Jamilla had come to the last entry in the book. A Linda Young. She was probably just another business acquaintance, Jamilla told herself, but she dialled the number anyway.
Five minutes later, she replaced the receiver, having struck lucky at last. Linda Young was Gloria’s sister and she was driving straight to Eborby from her home just outside Thirsk. She’d sounded shocked by Jamilla’s call but, from the tone of her voice, Jamilla guessed that the news that her sister was in hospital after having had some sort of breakdown wasn’t exactly unexpected. Jamilla
hadn’t mentioned the incident with John Wendal. It wasn’t something she wanted to discuss over the phone.
She looked around. The DCI wasn’t in her office and there was no sign of DI Plantagenet. So, as DS Sunny Porter was still out conducting interviews at Janna Pyke’s place of work, it seemed that it fell to Jamilla to use her initiative, something she often longed to do but her superiors rarely gave her the opportunity. She asked Linda Young where and when it would be convenient for them to meet and Linda readily agreed to a rendezvous at the hospital.
There was a café near the hospital’s main entrance and it was here she arranged to meet Linda after she had visited her sister in the psychiatric department. Jamilla was familiar with the café’s layout and its menu: she and the rest of her close-knit family had spent a lot of time there during her grandmother’s last illness, comforting and supporting each other over tea and scones provided by the stalwart ladies of the WRVS.
As Jamilla reached the café, the memories of her grandmother’s suffering flooded back into her mind. The pain inflicted on her small, thin body by her cancer; the way sickness had robbed the once all-powerful matriarch of her inherent dignity. Jamilla hesitated on the café’s threshold for a moment before marching inside, wearing her bravest face. She was there to do a job; to find out as much as she could about Gloria Simpson.
A middle-aged woman was sitting at a table in the corner. When she spotted Jamilla she stood up and gave a hesitant wave. Her mousy hair was dragged back into a ponytail and the checked shirt, jeans and gilet she wore marked her out as a countrywoman. She looked at Jamilla questioningly, wondering whether she’d got the right person.
Jamilla walked straight up to her. ‘Mrs Young?’ ‘Yes. DC Dal?’ Linda Young put out a hand. Jamilla noticed that the nails were short and unvarnished and the skin was rough.
After the preliminary pleasantries had been completed and the tea, the cure for all ills, obtained, the two women sat down opposite each other.
‘You’ve seen your sister?’ Jamilla began.
Linda Young nodded. ‘It’s bad. The doctor says she’ll be in for weeks.’
