Seeking the Dead

by Kate Ellis

  ‘I don’t like this place,’ she whispered to Tavy. ‘When can we go?’

  Tavy picked up his glass and took a long gulp of bitter. ‘As soon as I’ve finished this. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come. I should have known they’d close ranks.’ He put his glass down and looked round. ‘Do you know this pub’s reputed to have been a meeting place for those dabbling in witchcraft and devil worship? This was in the eighteenth century under a landlord called Jack Devilhorn who also moonlighted as a highwayman. And before that in 1657 the landlady – or I suppose they called her the ale wife in those days – was burned as a witch in front of the cathedral.’

  Carmel looked at him, her heart beating fast. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘When I took on the ghost tour job I did some research into Eborby’s grisly past. And believe me, some of it’s very grisly indeed.’ He drained his glass. ‘Come on. Let’s go somewhere else.’

  Carmel stood up quickly. She wanted to be out of there. ‘Did Janna often come here?’ she asked as they made for the door, their eyes focused ahead, trying to look casual.

  ‘Oh, yes. She was a regular. I came with her a couple of times but I always felt there was something going on here that I wasn’t a part of, if you see what I mean.’

  A sudden impulse made Carmel looked round. The shaven-headed man was still watching her, staring unblinkingly at her as though he was trying to see into her very soul. She had been walking slowly towards the door at Tavy’s side but now she broke into a trot and forged ahead of him, anxious to reach the outside world.

  ‘Where to now?’ she asked once they were on the pavement. It was a warm night, sultry. It had seemed cooler in the pub for some reason, although she hadn’t noticed any air conditioning. Perhaps it just had thick walls like many of Eborby’s historic buildings.

  ‘We could try this place I know near Wheatley Hall. I sometimes go there after the tour … after I’ve got rid of my costume and make-up.’ He smiled. ‘We can take a short cut through the snickleways. Come on.’

  This sounded more like it. Carmel’s heart felt lighter as she followed Tavy to the shadowy entrance of a nearby alley. The short cut. The alley – an ancient passageway between two medieval buildings – was unlit and was almost pitch black, except for a thin shaft of silvery light from the full moon above them. The snickleways of Eborby – the network of inconsequential little alleys and passageways that ran between the huddled old buildings – were picture-postcard quaint in daylight. But they could be dark and sinister at night. She walked close to Tavy so that their hands were almost touching and she felt a sudden desire to take his hand in hers, to seek comfort in the contact of flesh on flesh.

  But no sooner had this thought popped into her mind than she heard a sound behind them. Tavy quickened his pace and she did likewise. But the sound was getting closer. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Determined. Threatening.

  Carmel’s heart began to pound. Their pursuers were almost upon them. Nearer and nearer.

  ‘Run,’ Tavy whispered. ‘Now.’

  Her legs felt as if they were weighted down by heavy chains. She had had dreams where she had to flee from some unspecified terror and been unable to move from the spot, but this was real. Tavy had shot ahead but now he had retraced his steps and was yanking her arm. Fear deafened her to his words but she understood the sense of them. They had to get out of there.

  A dark shadow suddenly loomed out of the blackness of the unlit alley and Tavy loosened his grasp. Carmel could hear his cries as a boot made contact with his body. His assailant gasped with the effort of attack, panting like a beast in the shadows.

  ‘That’s from Jack Wendal,’ a voice hissed, vicious as a striking cobra.

  Carmel could just make out a figure bending over Tavy’s slumped form. She pressed her body into the alley wall, fearing she’d be next. But the assailant, after a second’s hesitation, retreated down the alley and left her there listening to Tavy’s groans of pain.

  And as the sound of the attackers’ footsteps faded, Carmel heard herself scream.

  Chapter Nine

  The killer stared at the card in his hand. At the scribbled, barely legible dates listed, one underneath the other. He had looked at the calendar on the wall, checked it several times, but the answer was always the same. He would have to wait until the next day to know what the future had in store for him.

  He longed to know when he could use the equipment again. He had become rather good at it; watching them; following them; getting to know their routines and their habits. Then waiting until they were alone and vulnerable and striking when they least expected it. They were dangerous, fearsome. But he had played his part in ridding the world of their evil. He had done well.

  He hoped there would be more tasks for him to perform. If there weren’t he might just have to branch out on his own.

  Joe Plantagenet had walked Maddy back to her small terraced cottage in the shadow of the city walls, not too far from his own flat. But he hadn’t accepted her offer of coffee. He was starting to like Maddy – to enjoy her company – but a small voice inside him told him to take things slowly. When they’d said goodnight, he’d waited outside the house until he knew she was safely inside. While the Resurrection Man was at large, he was worried for her … and for all the lone women of Eborby.

  He woke up early the next morning and climbed out of bed at six o’clock, feeling wide awake, and, after two slices of buttered toast and a strong coffee, he dressed and let himself out of the flat quietly. He needed time to think.

  It was too early for the rush hour so crossing the main road was no problem. As he walked across, his way was barred by the bulk of the city walls. His flat was just outside their protection, a new development, convenient and blessed with all mod cons.

  He walked on purposefully, keeping the walls to his left. They looked impregnable, enclosing and defending their own little world. Standing on top of the walls you could pick off your enemies as they clambered up the steep, grassy banks and it was easy to imagine yourself in the defenders’ place. That was the trouble with Eborby – and its virtue. Everywhere you looked and trod had thousands of years of history imprinted on it. Roman, Viking, medieval, Civil War. The thought both exhausted and excited him. He was just another link in the chain. Just another official trying to bring wrongdoers to justice. His Roman, Viking and medieval counterparts must have faced the same problems. There would always have been wrongs to right – thieves and murderers to apprehend. It was the way of the world. Always had been since Cain first lost his temper with his brother Abel.

  Passing underneath Canons Bar, one of the four intact medieval gates that had been the city’s front line of defence in days gone by, he caught a fleeting whiff of urine – last night’s revellers had used the shadowy shelter beneath the fierce spikes of the raised wooden portcullis as a convenient place to relieve themselves. He continued down the claustrophobic streets with their little shuttered shops and stone pavements worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, avoiding a small pool of dried vomit outside a half-timbered pub advertising karaoke nights in its small leaded windows.

  As he rounded the corner, the narrow street opened on to the wide expanse of Vicars Green. When he passed Carmel Hennessy’s small window he glanced upwards, hoping to see some sign of life in her flat to indicate that she had survived her trip to the Black Hen unscathed. The curtains were drawn across the window which he took as a sign that she had got home safely. Perhaps he was worrying about nothing.

  He hurried on past the graceful Georgian symmetry of the cathedral choir school, and at eight o’clock precisely he arrived outside the cathedral’s south door, staring upwards at the towers reaching up to the wispy clouds that scuttled across the otherwise blue sky as the great bell tolled the hour. Until a few weeks ago the towers had been hidden by scaffolding, but now they could be seen in their full glory with their elaborately carved pinnacles and their impudent gargoyles that mocked the passers-by below as they had done for
centuries.

  For a while Joe gaped at the fantastic building, anchored like a gigantic ship floating above the labyrinth of ancient streets, before creeping inside on tiptoe, instinctively silent. There was a service on, sparsely attended because of the early hour, so he took a seat at the back of the huge, airy nave.

  A galaxy of twinkling candles lit the cathedral’s dark spaces. Maybe he should have lit one for Janna Pyke and the other victims, he thought as he recited the familiar words of the Our Father. He needed all the help he could get.

  When the service ended he looked around. There was someone he wanted to see; someone who had been a distant robed figure officiating by the altar during the service. At last he spotted him, a small round man in a black chasuble, bald as a snooker ball, bustling down the aisle. When Joe stood up, the man spotted him and gave a wide grin of greeting.

  ‘Joe,’ he said, approaching with an outstretched hand. ‘Long time no see. How are you? How is everything?’

  ‘Not bad, George. Have you time for a chat?’

  Canon George Merryweather’s grin widened. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  Joe accepted gratefully. He had met George when he’d first arrived in Eborby. He had been investigating a burglary at George’s house in the cathedral close and, in his vulnerable state, he had found himself confiding in him about Kaitlin and Kevin – using him rather as a father confessor. George had listened and given the occasional wise word of advice. But he’d mostly listened. There were times when Joe thought that George had saved his life … or at least his faith.

  He followed George down the aisle and turned left beneath the central tower. Once they had left the main cathedral and passed the chapter house, George produced a large key from an unseen pocket and opened a small oak door at the end of the passage.

  ‘My office,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Excuse the mess, won’t you.’

  He switched the light on and stepped inside. Joe followed, suddenly understanding what George meant by the mess. His first thought was that the office had been burgled. But then he remembered that chaos was George’s default state. Boxes were piled everywhere and papers lay strewn across the floor. The surface of the desk was invisible under a pile of debris, books and files.

  ‘How do you find anything?’ Joe asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘Either divine guidance or luck. Take your pick. I prefer to think it’s the former. Sit down, won’t you. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Somehow a kettle and a couple of clean mugs were produced from underneath a pile of brochures. George had always moved in rather mysterious ways and Joe had learned to accept the fact. He looked at his watch. He had half an hour before he was due at work.

  When the tea was in front of him, steaming and still too hot to drink, Joe came to the point of his visit. ‘Hope you don’t mind, George, but I want to pick your brains.’

  George, who was busy fishing a teabag out of his mug, looked up and smiled. ‘Pick away, dear boy.’

  ‘You have a special interest in the opposition, as it were.’

  ‘The devil and all his works. Certainly. In fact they’ve given me a rather swanky title – Diocesan Consultant on the Occult.’

  ‘And is there a lot of it about?’

  ‘Oh, indeed yes. I’m sorry to say there is. I was called out only the other day. Some poor girl who’d got involved in something because she thought it would be a laugh. Then she found out it wasn’t so funny. Her mother consulted her local vicar who came to me.’

  ‘What was she involved in?’

  George took a sip of tea before replying.

  ‘It seems she was persuaded to take part in some kind of black magic ritual. I don’t know what happened exactly but afterwards she became genuinely disturbed. She started having nightmares: she’d wake up screaming, terrified, and she wouldn’t let her mother or a doctor anywhere near her. And then she began to talk in a man’s voice, using old-fashioned language she couldn’t possibly have known. Her mother said it was as if she was possessed by something evil. That’s when she called us in. I don’t know whether she believes or not but I don’t think she knew what else to do.’

  ‘And did you manage to help her?’

  ‘I hope so. I prayed with her and performed the usual rituals and the girl’s had no strange behaviour since. But she’s very shaken … very fragile. The mother says she’ll contact me if there’s any change. In the meantime she’s seeing a psychiatrist at the hospital. Belt and braces. Science and religion.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s hope she’s OK.’

  ‘Have you heard of a place called the Black Hen?’

  George’s open, round face suddenly looked deadly serious. ‘Of course I’ve heard of the Black Hen. That place has been notorious since the sixteenth century. Built on the site of a Viking cemetery, so rumour has it. It was OK for years as far as I know … just another pub before the present landlord took over and thought he’d revive its old traditions as it were. It’s the hangout of all sorts of weir-does and would-be Satanists. A place best avoided.’

  ‘Is that where this ritual you mentioned took place?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Ever been there?’

  ‘I reckon I’m persona non grata in that place. But I did pop in once for a swift half incognito – I thought I should size up the opposition. Nasty atmosphere.’

  ‘And they actually perform rituals on the premises?’

  ‘I suspect so but I’ve no proof. And Amy, the girl who … is in no fit state yet to go into details.’

  ‘What do you know about the House of Terrors on Marketgate?’

  George shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s just a tourist trap as far as I know. Their leaflets are everywhere.’

  ‘Nothing sinister going on there then?’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything.’ He leaned forward. ‘Why? Do you know something I don’t?’

  ‘I’m not sure. A young woman who worked there has just been found dead … apparently a victim of this Resurrection Man. And we’ve heard that some of her colleagues frequent the Black Hen.’ He delved in his pocket and brought out a small notebook. He extracted a pen from the debris on George’s desk and made a rough drawing of the symbol he’d seen at Gloria Simpson’s flat and Jevons’s office. The triangle within a circle topped by two horns. He pushed the finished sketch towards George. ‘Recognise that?’

  George stared at it for a few seconds. ‘I do as a matter of fact. The girl I was telling you about – Amy – she kept drawing this symbol. I asked her what it meant but she wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Did she have any connection with the House of Terrors?’

  George’s eyes lit up. He had once confided to Joe that he had once considered detection as a career. It seemed the old interest hadn’t waned. ‘Yes. She worked there in the café. Just on Saturdays. She’s in the sixth form.’

  Joe suddenly remembered the other thing he’d intended to ask. ‘By the way, George, this is a long shot but does the name Jack Wendal mean anything to you?’

  George frowned. ‘It does seem vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere but I can’t remember where exactly. Tell you what, I’ll make some enquiries and if I find anything out I’ll let you know.’

  Joe smiled patiently. ‘If you could, George, it’d be a great help,’ he said as he took a welcome sip of tea.

  When Emily Thwaite arrived at the police station she hurried straight to her office. She wasn’t in the mood to face the team just yet. She needed time to assume the confident persona of leadership her troops expected. After slipping off her jacket she sat at her desk and began to read through some reports that had been deposited there in her absence. But she found that she couldn’t get Jane Pyke out of her mind. She thought she’d expunged the girl from her life five years ago. But some things come back to haunt us.

  A knock on the door and the appearance of Sunny Porter disturbed her contemplations. She arranged her features into a keen, alert expression and forced herself to smile. There was no
way she was going to show any weakness in front of the likes of Sunny Porter.

  ‘Morning, Sunny. Anything interesting come in overnight?’

  ‘It certainly has, ma’am,’ he said with relish. Whatever it was he had to report, it was something good.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A plumber found a carrier bag in a skip and he handed it in at the front desk. It contained clothes and a handbag.

  No money or credit cards in it – probably nicked – but there was a cash and carry card with a name on it. Carla Yates. The plumber recognised the name cause he’d heard it on the news. That’s why he …’

  Emily’s heart began to beat a little faster. ‘Are the clothes the ones she was last seen in?’

  ‘They fit the description, aye. I’ve sent everything down to Forensic.’

  ‘Good. Where exactly were they found?’ ‘Skip in Pickby.’

  Emily raised her eyebrows. ‘Near Harold Uckley’s and Gloria Simpson’s?’

  ‘Couple of streets away from Simpson’s. It’s quite a way from where Yates was last seen but it might give us some idea about where the killer lives. Or where he passes on his way to work, for instance.’

  Emily cleared her throat. Pickby was too close to her house for comfort. She stood up and walked over to a large map of the city that hung on her office wall. She placed her index finger on the spot where Carla Yates made her last appearance on CCTV then traced the direct route to Pickby. About two miles as the crow flies. She resolved to get herself some coloured pins and see whether there was any sort of pattern to where the victims and the protagonists lived and worked. But then Eborby was hardly a large city. In light traffic a car could travel from one end of the conurbation to the other in under fifteen minutes.

  ‘The carrier bag the clothes were found in was from the gift shop in that new Archaeology Centre on Sheepgate.’