by Kate Ellis
Emily swung round. This was the nearest thing to a solid clue they’d had in ages. ‘OK, get someone round there, will you. See if they keep records of sales … or CCTV. Anything that’ll tell us how our man got hold of the bag.’
‘He might have found it somewhere … stuffed her things in it because it was handy,’ Sunny suggested.
But Emily was determined to ignore this dampener on her enthusiasm. ‘Any idea how long the bag had been in the skip?’
‘The skip was replaced at nine yesterday morning and the plumber swears the bag wasn’t there at lunchtime so, presumably, it was dumped some time yesterday afternoon. He noticed it just before he was due to knock off work and brought it to us first thing this morning. Think he nicked the cash and credit cards … that’s assuming there were any?’
Emily shook her head. ‘He didn’t need to bring it in, did he? If he’d nicked them he would have chucked it.’ She paused, trying to get things straight in her mind. ‘So someone – presumably our killer – keeps hold of his first victim’s things for four weeks, pinches her valuables then dumps everything in the first available skip he comes across?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘The only thing is, Sunny, it doesn’t quite ring true, does it?’
Sunny said nothing. The theory sounded OK to him.
‘I’d assumed the killer kept their clothes as souvenirs. Why get rid of them a few weeks later?’
‘Perhaps he waited till the fuss had died down. Thought nobody would notice.’
Emily sighed. Sunny could be right. But somehow the psychology didn’t fit. The Resurrection Man was just the sort of sadistic monster who would keep mementoes of his victims’ agonies. These things would be precious to him. He would gloat over them, spread them out in front of him and relive his crimes … not chuck them in a skip.
‘Is DI Plantagenet in yet?’
‘Just come in, ma’am. He said he had to see somebody first thing. Want me to muster the troops?’
Emily forced a smile. ‘Thank you, Sunny,’ she said, still wondering how to conduct a detailed examination of Jane Pyke’s life without involving herself.
Chapter Ten
The carrier bag was a breakthrough. Joe could feel it. The killer had made a mistake. And he wondered whether Harold Uckley’s and Janna Pyke’s clothes would turn up in a similar manner. Patrols had been asked to keep an eye on unattended skips. Just in case.
The connection with the Archaeology Centre worried him a little. It brought it too close to home, too close to Carmel … and Maddy. He told himself he was being foolish. Thousands of people visited the centre and bought things from the gift shop. He tried to put it out of his mind as he walked down the road towards the Central Library.
The city archives – those that weren’t housed in the history department at the university – were housed on the second floor of the library, a red-brick product of Victorian civic pride built on the site of a medieval hospital whose undercroft still stood next door, all that remained above ground of a once vast complex. Twelfth-century confidence cheek by jowl with the nineteenth-century variety. Joe climbed the library’s wide marble staircase, passing the fiction section on the ground floor and the reference section on the first, until he reached his goal. Somehow, from what he knew of Janna Pyke, he found it hard to envisage her in these surroundings. But then she had been studying for an MA.
‘Can I help you?’ A young woman in tight jeans and T-shirt addressed him quietly. She didn’t look like a librarian. But then he supposed he didn’t really look like a policeman. He produced his ID and she motioned him to follow her. They ended up in an office packed with files and computers.
‘I suppose you’ve come about Janna,’ she began. ‘I saw it on the news. Bloody awful. She spent a lot of time here, you know. She told me a while back that she was researching the medieval plague but recently she’d been getting out stuff on the early seventeenth century.’
Joe smiled encouragingly. He knew a good witness when he met one. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘It’d be a week ago. Aye. It was the Thursday. I remember because that’s when some idiot set the fire alarm off. Kids – they say they’re here to work but they just mess about half the time.’ She rolled her eyes at the folly of youth. ‘Janna and Keith were up here in the archives and …’
‘Keith?’
‘Keith Webster. Dr Webster from the history department at the university. He was here with Janna.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Course I am. They seemed to be having a heated discussion about something.’
‘Arguing?’
The young woman grinned. ‘You can’t have a good argument in a library – and believe me, I’ve tried. More like hushed voices. But I could tell he wasn’t pleased about something. When the alarm went off she came back when the all clear was given but he didn’t.’
‘What did you think of Janna Pyke?’
The young woman pulled a face. ‘Bit weird. Intense, I’d say. Not a barrel of laughs.’
‘And Dr Webster?’
‘Keith’s OK.’
‘Do you think there was anything between them?’
Another grin. ‘Romance, you mean? Or just good old-fashioned rumpy-pumpy?’
‘Either.’
She thought for a few moments. ‘Wouldn’t rule out the latter. But Keith’s married. His wife works at the Eborby Permanent. Look, sorry I can’t be more help.’
‘On the contrary, you’ve been very helpful.’
A shadow passed over the young woman’s face. ‘I hope you get this maniac. I’m scared stiff going out at night now.’
Joe didn’t really know what to say so he took his leave.
‘Are you going to have a word with this Keith Webster? He lied to us. Said he hadn’t seen her for two weeks but now we’ve a witness who saw him with her a week ago.’ Emily Thwaite frowned.
‘He’s out on a field trip at the moment. I’ll see him when he gets back.’
Emily had been pacing up and down her office. She suddenly stopped, sat down and put her head in her hands.
Joe sat down on the grey tweed chair next to her desk. He had noticed that she looked tired, as if the strain of the case was getting to her. ‘Everything OK?’
She looked up. ‘Yes. Why shouldn’t it be?’
The tone of her voice told him that it would be wise to change the subject.
He cleared his throat. ‘I went to see an old friend of mine first thing this morning. George Merryweather – he’s a canon at the cathedral and an expert on the occult. He thinks he may have heard the name Jack Wendal before but he couldn’t remember where.’
‘Pity,’ Emily sighed.
‘He was called in to see a disturbed girl who kept drawing the symbol we saw at Gloria Simpson’s flat. Remember? She’d undergone some traumatic experience apparently. And there’s a possible link with the Black Hen.’
Emily nodded warily. The spiritual and supernatural were uncharted territory for her; things she’d never really given much thought to up till now. And things that made her distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Janna Pyke – or should we be calling her Jane? – went to the Black Hen. Her ex-boyfriend says she knew people at the House of Terrors who dabbled in Satanism. If Wendal’s somehow involved …’
She smirked. ‘Are you saying that John Wendal is some sort of grand wizard? Look, Joe, wizards don’t work for building societies and play with steam trains in their spare time. Or at least they didn’t last time I read a fairy story to the kids. And what about Carla Yates and Harold Uckley? There’s no hint that they were ever involved in anything like that.’
‘It was just an idea.’
The knock on the door made Emily jump. As she regained her composure and said ‘come in’, Joe thought again how strained she looked, as though something other than the case was eating away at her. He wondered if he should say anything. But perhaps, he thought, it was better to mind his own
business for the time being.
Jamilla pushed the door open and stood on the threshold wearing an eager expression on her face. ‘We’ve drawn a blank at the Eborby Permanent, ma’am. Nobody can remember Jack Wendal having anything to do with Gloria Simpson – then Gloria Marsh – who did six months in accounts. In fact it’s more than likely their paths never crossed.’
‘Well, something made her attack him,’ said Emily.
Jamilla ignored the remark and carried on. ‘And Forensic’s just called, ma’am. They’ve got a match on the fingerprints they found on Carla Yates’s things.’ She paused, as if she wanted to add an element of suspense.
‘Well,’ said Joe. ‘Are you going to let us into the secret?’
‘Secret?’
‘Whose fingerprints were found on Carla Yates’s possessions?’
Jamilla smiled. ‘Sorry. It’s Michael Friday … usually known as Mickey. He’s got form for— ’
‘I know what he’s got form for.’ He turned to Emily. ‘He’s one of our regular customers. GBH, robbery with violence. He was done for manslaughter a couple of years back but the jury believed his story and found that he acted in self defence.’ He smiled. ‘We were just talking about fairy tales, weren’t we, ma’am? Well, Mickey can spin them with the best. I wouldn’t have put him down for these murders though. Subtlety’s not usually in his repertoire. Neither is unnecessary sadism. He’s a vicious bastard but this really isn’t his style.’
‘Get him brought in all the same,’ said Emily. ‘See to it, will you, Jamilla?’ She sounded weary. ‘I wish this John Wendal would come round,’ she said as Jamilla hurried out. ‘I’d love to hear what he has to say for himself.’
‘Me too.’ Joe hesitated. ‘Do you think it might be a good idea if we went over what we’ve got?’
‘It might help.’
‘OK. Our man presumably stalks his victims … but unfortunately he’s never been seen or caught on CCTV doing it.’
‘Are we sure about the CCTV? Has it been double-checked? There might be something we’ve missed.’
‘I’ll get someone on to it.’ Joe wrote in his notebook. Another thing to do.
‘Right then, what have we got?’
Joe took a deep breath. ‘First victim, Carla Yates. Disappeared after a night out with friends. Found a week after she disappeared in a country churchyard. Naked, signs that she’d been bound. Cause of death, suffocation. Evidence suggests she’d been stunned with a blow to the head then trussed up in a confined space until she died. Clothes have only just turned up. Can we expect the other victims’ clothes to appear in due course as well?’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Her eyes wandered to the child’s painting pinned on the wall for a second. Then she straightened her back and frowned. ‘What about the other victims?’
‘Second victim, Harold Uckley. Circumstances similar. Disappeared on the way to the pub a week after Carla Yates went missing and found a week later. Ditto cause of death and disposal of body. Third victim, Janna Pyke.’
Joe noticed a brief flicker of recognition, of anxiety, in Emily’s eyes, swiftly suppressed. ‘You sure you’re OK, Emily?’ he asked, watching her carefully as she rearranged her features into a mask of professional neutrality.
‘Yes, of course I am,’ she snapped, then immediately regretted her sharpness. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘What do we know about her?’
‘Well, Janna seems slightly more complex than the first two. She did a moonlight flit from her flat almost a month ago and she was spotted in Boargate about a week before she died, around the same time she was seen in the city archives with Dr Webster, her supervisor at the university. We’ve yet to find out where she was living between her flit from Vicars Green and the time of her death. She had connections with the House of Terrors and the Black Hen but there’s no indication that the other victims did. Is this occult connection just a coincidence or is it relevant?’
‘Search me,’ Emily said, fiddling with a pencil, turning it over and over in her fingers.
‘Janna was receiving threats from someone who obviously didn’t know she’d moved out of her Vicars Green flat so …’
‘So they might have nothing to do with her murder.’
‘Quite. The threats mentioned Jack Wendal – possible occult connection. In the meantime a John Wendal – commonly known as Jack – is attacked after apparently terrifying the life out of Gloria Simpson. As far as we can see, Wendal is an upstanding pillar of the community. But a leaflet in his garage links him to the House or Terrors …’ He saw the sceptical expression on Emily’s face. ‘Or not as the case may be.’ He sighed. ‘The best thing we’ve got so far is the fact that the first two victims, plus John Wendal and Gloria Simpson, have all worked at the Eborby Permanent Building Society at one time or another. And I’ve discovered that Dr Webster’s wife works there too … another connection.’
‘Carla Yates’s things were found in a carrier bag from the Archaeology Centre gift shop.’ She turned to Joe. ‘I presume someone’s checking that angle out.’
‘Yes. And there’s another thing.’ Joe hesitated for a moment. ‘That colleague of mine I was telling you about – the one who was shot.’
‘What about him?’ She could tell the memory was still raw so she asked the question gently.
‘His daughter’s just moved to Eborby and she’s living in Janna Pyke’s old flat – her boss at the Archaeology Centre is the landlady and she let Carmel have the flat when Janna did a flit. And there’s another thing – Carmel’s met up with Janna’s ex-boyfriend. He called at the flat.’
The wariness reappeared in Emily’s eyes. ‘Could this ex-boyfriend be a suspect?’
‘There’s no evidence to suggest that but I don’t suppose we can rule it out.’
Emily sat in silent thought for a few seconds, staring at the pencil in her hand. Then she looked up suddenly. ‘We’re missing something here, Joe. Some link between the victims. It’s not just women he’s targeting. Serial killers are supposed to go for the same type, aren’t they?’
Joe nodded. ‘Young vulnerable women like in the West case. Or kids … or homeless young men. There’s usually a pattern. But what have we got here? A middle-aged divorcée. A married man nearing retirement. A young woman post-grad student. What makes him choose them?’
Emily sighed. ‘If we knew that we’d be halfway to cracking the case. You got any bright ideas?’
Joe shrugged his shoulders. ‘Only half-baked ones at the moment but I was wondering whether Janna Pyke ever worked at the Eborby Permanent.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m supposed to be going over to Leeds with Jamilla to see Janna Pyke’s parents. Sure you don’t want to come?’
‘No,’ Emily said quickly. ‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands, eh.’
An hour later Joe parked the car outside a large detached house in a tree-lined suburban street on the outskirts of Leeds. It was a pleasant street, an unremarkable thoroughfare, prosperous but not flashy. Somehow Joe found it hard to associate such mundane surroundings with the troubled Janna Pyke. This was the territory of Jane Pyke … her alter ego.
As he and Jamilla walked slowly to the front door, his heart was gripped by a sudden feeling of dread. These people had already been told their daughter was dead – the local police had broken the dreadful news – and he felt as if he was intruding on grief. He hated this part of the job. And he feared that he would have made a bad priest – embarrassed and tongue-tied with the grieving and the needy, absorbing their grief into his soul until he could no longer bear the pain. Maybe it was a good thing he’d decided on the police force.
He let Jamilla do the talking when Janna Pyke’s father answered the door. He was a tall man, diminished and greyed by mourning, and he said nothing as he stood aside to let them in. He led the way into the living room with his head bowed.
A woman was sitting on the sofa, flicking through a glossy magazine absentmindedly, keeping her hands occupied while her thoughts were miles away. She wa
s thin with short dark hair. Joe thought she would have been attractive, if sadness and sleeplessness hadn’t taken their toll on her face.
The couple motioned him and Jamilla to sit on the sofa opposite them. No tea was offered. With all that had happened, the rituals of hospitality had gone by the board.
‘We’re very sorry about your daughter,’ Joe began after clearing his throat. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Not since last September,’ the father replied. ‘She never came home. Not even for Christmas. Said she was spending it with friends.’
Jamilla looked uneasy as she glanced at Joe. In her family such neglect would be unthinkable. ‘Did she telephone you?’ she asked, trying her best to hide her disapproval.
‘Sometimes. When she wanted money. She last called about …’ He looked at his wife for help. ‘When was it, love?’
‘About a fortnight ago,’ she said softly. She sounded as though she was on the verge of tears.
‘What did she say?’
‘I told those other policemen. She just said she’d moved out of her flat … said that she’d let us know her new address when she had somewhere permanent. She never did. But that was typical.’ Jane Pyke’s mother sounded bitter, the sort of bitterness that resulted from long-borne strife. Something in her manner told Joe that in life, Jane had been trouble.
‘You didn’t get on with your daughter?’ he asked tentatively, hoping he’d not misread the situation.
‘No. We didn’t get on. She made trouble for people. Including us.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She always had to stir things up. She was never happy unless … She liked to mess with people’s lives. I knew she’d go too far one day.’
It was a strange thing for a grieving mother to say. And Joe waited for an explanation. But he didn’t get one.
‘What exactly do you mean?’ he prompted after a few moments.
‘She’d push people to the limit. We had neighbours who complained about a couple of parties she had when she was about sixteen. We’d gone out so we didn’t know what was going on. Anyway, after they’d complained she used to go and sit on their walls with her radio on full blast. And when she was in the sixth form she caused no end of trouble at school … she …’ She broke off in mid-sentence as though reluctant to speak ill of the dead and looked Jamilla in the eye. ‘I suppose you think I’m awful, speaking about her like this.’
