Seeking the Dead

by Kate Ellis

  ‘No,’ said Joe. ‘I don’t. She must have caused you a lot of unhappiness. But you still loved her.’

  He’d hit a raw nerve. Jane Pyke’s mother burst into tears and her father put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  He looked up at Joe. ‘We don’t know anything about her life in Eborby. We don’t know what she got up to or who her friends were. We can’t help you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Had she any friends around here we could talk to? Anyone who knew her?’

  ‘Most of them went away to university. And I don’t think she kept in touch with any of them … not that we know of any road.’

  ‘There was Gemma,’ Mrs Pyke said in a small voice.

  ‘Oh aye, Gemma.’ The way he said the name suggested that Gemma – whoever she was – hadn’t been regarded as a good influence in the Pyke household.

  ‘Where can we find her?’

  Pyke pressed his lips together, stiff with disapproval. ‘She works in the chip shop on the Tadcaster Road. The Happy Fryer. But as far as I know our Jane’s not seen her for years.’

  Joe wrote Gemma’s details down in his notebook. It was doubtful whether she’d be able to help them and he didn’t think for one moment that the answer to Jane Pyke’s murder lay in the suburbs of Leeds, but it might be worth having a chat with her old school friend if all else failed.

  ‘This might seem like a strange question, but did Jane ever work at the Eborby Permanent Building Society?’

  ‘No,’ said her father emphatically. ‘Her mother worked in the Roundhay branch, didn’t you, love? But it’s the sort of job Jane would have turned her nose up at. Not her sort of thing.’

  ‘Did you know she called herself Janna?’

  Pyke glanced at his wife and shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Was she interested in the occult at all?’

  The man shrugged. ‘To be honest, it wouldn’t surprise me. She liked all that horror stuff. She was a very clever girl but …’

  ‘When can we bury her?’ Mrs Pyke said suddenly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Joe whispered. ‘It might not be for a while yet. We’ll let you know as soon as …’ He stood up. ‘Did Jane mention anything to you? Anything at all about her friends or where she went in Eborby or anyone she met?’

  Pyke stood up. There were tears welling in his eyes. ‘We didn’t have that sort of relationship with our daughter, Inspector. We didn’t sit down for cosy chats over Sunday lunch and she didn’t ring her mother to share her news. She led her own life. Her choice … not ours.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe. And he meant it.

  Chapter Eleven

  It wasn’t until midday that Maddy Owen managed to catch Carmel alone. They met in the Ladies at the Archaeology Centre when Carmel emerged from one of the cubicles as Maddy was washing her hands.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Maddy asked tentatively as they stood side by side at the mirror. ‘You look a bit … Did you see Tavy last night?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Carmel paused, her face grave. ‘If you must know, he got into a fight. We went to the Black Hen and he was beaten up on the way home.’

  Maddy’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘I think so, but maybe he was putting a brave face on it. He said he didn’t need to see a doctor but I think he should. He went home afterwards so maybe his mother persuaded him. Men, eh?’

  ‘So what happened exactly?’

  ‘We had a drink in the Black Hen. He was asking people who Jack Wendal was.’

  Maddy sucked in her breath. ‘Probably not the wisest thing to do. He should have left it to the police. What was he thinking of?’

  Carmel looked uncomfortable and didn’t answer. The more she thought about Tavy’s actions, the more foolhardy they seemed to be.

  ‘So did it happen inside the pub or …?’

  ‘No. When we left we took a short cut through an alley and someone must have followed us. They roughed him up a bit and said it was from Jack Wendal. I think it could have been a lot worse. It looked as if they were just trying to warn him off.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d be taking it so calmly if I were you,’ Maddy said.

  Carmel managed a weak smile. ‘Believe me, Maddy, I’m a quivering jelly inside.’ She hesitated. ‘Look,’ she said after a few seconds, ‘do you think these people from the Black Hen, whoever they are, were after Janna Pyke for some reason?’

  Maddy shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. But one comforting thought is that whoever was after her didn’t know she was dead – they still phoned and sent those letters – so they couldn’t have had anything to do with her murder. And now it’s been on the news that she’s dead …’

  ‘They’ll leave her flat alone.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Maddy blushed. ‘I … er, saw Joe last night.’

  Carmel raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘He’s really worried about you.’ ‘He doesn’t need to be,’ Carmel said quickly. ‘Are you seeing him again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Look, Maddy, it was good to see Joe but I don’t want my mum persuading him to act as some sort of bodyguard. I can take care of myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. But people only worry because they care about you.’

  Carmel was silent for a few moments, trying to think of a sharp reply. But she couldn’t. ‘Has Peta mentioned Janna’s death? I thought with her having lived in the flat she might have said something.’

  Maddy shook her head. ‘I went to her office before to go over some ideas for the Viking Festival but she didn’t say anything. Mind you, she might not have heard … or she might have other things on her mind.’

  Carmel inclined her head enquiringly, eager for gossip about her cool and distant boss.

  ‘I told you she has problems with her son.’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘She’s never really said and I don’t like to ask. I heard he’s been in and out of hospital, presumably for operations, but she’s one to keep her troubles to herself.’ She looked Carmel in the eye. ‘This Tavy … do you trust him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carmel said quickly.

  But Maddy sensed a shadow of doubt behind her apparent certainty. ‘Look, I think you should tell Joe what happened at the Black Hen.’ She saw that the girl looked unsure. ‘And if you don’t, I will.’

  In the face of Maddy’s determination, there didn’t seem to be any point in Carmel protesting.

  Joe and Jamilla stopped off for a bite of lunch in a country pub just the Eborby side of Tadcaster. When they returned to the office in the middle of the afternoon, Joe picked up Carmel’s message about Tavy McNair’s ill-advised enquiries at the Black Hen and his subsequent beating. Some people, he thought, would never learn.

  He tried to put it out of his mind for the time being while he studied the notes on his desk. Some of the investigation team were out trying to trace the whereabouts of Mickey Friday, whose prints had been found on Carla Yates’s things.

  Joe kept asking himself why the killer had held on to Carla’s clothes and bag for so long. Why hadn’t he disposed of them in some convenient skip or dustbin soon after her murder? Perhaps he’d wanted to look at them, to gloat, to touch them, to feel their softness and replay her death again and again in his mind. Had she pleaded with him for mercy as she lay naked, trussed up and gasping for air? Had he watched her suffering or had he just left her alone to die?

  They knew when and approximately where Carla Yates had disappeared and where and when she was found and, if they could discover where her things had been in the meantime, it might take them one step nearer to the killer. Forensic had examined the bag and its contents thoroughly for any clue, any speck that would give away their secret. But all they had come up with was two prints on the handbag: Mickey Friday’s thumb and forefinger.

  Joe had had dealings with Mickey Friday on a number of occasions: he was stupid; he was dishonest; and there were times when he’
d been violent. But Mickey’s violence had always been the straightforward kind – the fist in the alley; the glass in the face. Somehow Joe found it impossible to see him as the Resurrection Man. But then, he had been wrong before. Mickey was out there somewhere and they had to bring him in.

  At three forty-five he finally found a spare moment to return Carmel’s call and he listened carefully to her account of the attack on Tavy McNair. His first reaction was to feel angry with the young man for playing the hero and putting himself and Carmel in danger. But then he began to wonder whether there was more to it than that. Had Tavy McNair been involved in what went on at the Black Hen in some way and found himself on the wrong side of his former associates? Or had the whole thing been staged for some reason, as yet unknown?

  In the absence of Kevin, it seemed that Carmel had suddenly become his responsibility and he couldn’t help worrying about her. Perhaps he should advise her to stop seeing McNair. But she was an adult and, of course, there was no guarantee that she would listen.

  As he put the phone down Joe felt a strong urge to clear up the Jack Wendal puzzle once and for all. And there was someone he wanted to see at the House of Terrors who might be able to cast a shaft of light into the shadows of his ignorance.

  It was a fine day and he felt desperate to get out of the office again and breathe in some fresh air. After the trip to Leeds he kept seeing the pale faces of Jane Pyke’s parents. She had been a nightmare daughter but they had never stopped loving her. Now any hope they may have had that she would grow out of her awkwardness and become a loving child who would settle down and present them with grandchildren was wiped out. He had left them alone to mourn their only daughter, unable to stand their pain. And now he needed a distraction.

  He was about to leave his office when Emily poked her head round the door. ‘How did you get on?’ she asked.

  Joe could detect a hint of anxiety in her voice but he put it down to the pressure she was under. ‘As you’d expect,’ he answered. ‘The parents are devastated. But they didn’t keep in touch with Jane so there wasn’t much they could tell us. They knew nothing about her life in Eborby.’

  ‘What did they say exactly?’

  Joe looked up at Emily and saw that she was watching him intently, awaiting his reply.

  ‘Not much. There was an old school friend who worked in a local chippy she might have kept in touch with, but apart from that …’

  There was no mistaking it, Emily Thwaite looked relieved. And Joe wondered why.

  ‘I’m on my way to the House of Terrors,’ he said. ‘I want to show John Wendal’s photograph around … see if anyone recognises him.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ve been doing a bit of digging myself. Did you know that the manager, Terry Jevons, has convictions for obtaining money by deception, threatening behaviour and actual bodily harm?’

  Joe raised his eyebrows. Somehow the fact that Jevons had a criminal record didn’t surprise him. His crimes were hardly in the same league as the Resurrection Man’s. But who was to say he hadn’t branched out as many criminals had done before him? ‘Want to come with me … have a word with Jevons?’ he asked.

  Emily shook her head sadly. ‘I can’t. The Super wants to see me.’

  Joe was about to take his leave when he realised there was something he’d forgotten to tell Emily. ‘I had a call from Carmel. She went to the Black Hen last night with Janna Pyke’s ex-boyfriend, Tavy McNair. Someone jumped him when they left the pub … gave him a beating and said it was a warning from Jack Wendal.’

  Emily sank back into her seat. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘It looks like he got off lightly.’

  ‘You don’t think it was staged for Carmel’s benefit, do you?’

  Their eyes met. ‘The thought had occurred to me … but then I’ve got a suspicious mind. If it is genuine, it looks as if someone’s trying to scare McNair off – make sure that he keeps his nose out of whatever’s going on there.’

  ‘And what is going on there?’

  ‘I think it’s about time we found out, don’t you? Fancy a drink in the Black Hen after work?’

  Emily hesitated, a smile playing on her lips as though she was uncertain whether the invitation was personal or professional. ‘I don’t want to be late home.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t be.’

  ‘OK then. I’ll see you later.’

  After checking that he had the photograph of John Wendal in his pocket, Joe swept out of the office and headed straight for Marketgate and the House of Terrors.

  Joe Plantagenet felt that he had hit a brick wall. When he had shown the photograph of John Wendal to the staff at the House of Terrors, nobody had displayed the slightest flicker of recognition.

  He had watched Terry Jevons’s sly face closely and he was certain that Wendal was a stranger to him. Perhaps he was barking up the wrong tree altogether. Perhaps he was reading too much into the occult connection. He wished Gloria Simpson was fit to be interviewed, to explain her actions. But each time he rang the psychiatric department the answer was the same. She was still in no state to answer questions.

  His next move was to see whether Harold Uckley’s family and Carla Yates’s friends could throw any light on the Wendal connection … if there was one. Joe was beginning to have serious doubts. The fact that George Merryweather thought Wendal’s name was familiar was intriguing. But was it relevant?

  As he left Jevons’s office, Joe thought he’d have one last go. He was halfway out of the door when he turned around. ‘That symbol – the triangle in the circle with the half-circle on top … looks a bit like horns. What does it mean?’

  Jevons looked uncomfortable for a few seconds, then assumed a casual expression. Too casual. ‘It’s a little society of like-minded people. It’s nothing illegal, I assure you.’ His lips twitched upwards in an oily, self satisfied smile.

  ‘Black magic? Devil worship?’

  ‘As I said, it’s not illegal.’ He sounded defensive now.

  ‘Was Janna Pyke a member of this … society?’

  ‘We like to keep our membership discreet … confidential.’

  ‘This is a murder enquiry,’ Joe hissed, suddenly angry with Jevons’s evasiveness.

  ‘OK. No, Janna Pyke wasn’t one of our number. Is that all?’

  Joe knew he was lying. ‘What about Gloria Simpson? Or John Wendal?’

  ‘These people expect discretion …’

  ‘Are they members?’

  Jevons hesitated. ‘I really can’t say anything without the members’ permission. But I was telling you the truth when I said I’d never seen the man in the photograph before.’

  ‘What about Carla Yates and Harold Uckley? Were they part of it?’

  Jevons gave Joe another oily smile. ‘Now you’re pushing your luck, Inspector. But the answer in both cases is in the negative.’

  Joe longed to wipe the smirk off Jevons’ face with a well-aimed punch. But instead he took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head – a tactic that usually worked. ‘So Gloria Simpson is a member but the others I mentioned aren’t?’

  ‘Sorry, Inspector, can’t help you. If that’s all …’

  ‘I need a list of your members.’

  For the first time Jevons began to look a little worried. ‘That’s impossible, I’m afraid. Anyway, most of them either use different names or choose to remain anonymous.’

  ‘Then I’ll just have to send a couple of officers to attend your next meeting and take statements.’ Joe watched the expression of horror on Jevons’s face with a glow of satisfaction. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said ominously before sweeping out of the office.

  At least he now knew that Jevons was dabbling in the occult, running some kind of organisation from the House of Terrors … or possibly from the Black Hen. He claimed that the Resurrection Man’s victims weren’t members of this shadowy group. But there was certainly something ritualistic about their deaths.

  He wondered whether Jevons would have admit
ted to the group’s existence if they had been involved in ritual murder. But then Joe had already let him know that he suspected something was going on and it would only take a small amount of digging to come up with the truth. Perhaps Jevons’s candour had been a damage-limitation exercise.

  On his way out of the House of Terrors, Joe suddenly remembered what George Merryweather had told him about the girl he had been called in to exorcise. If people of that age were involved, it was no select group of consenting adults as Jevons had claimed.

  Someone, he thought, needed to keep an eye on the House of Terrors.

  Gloria Simpson tried the door of her sparsely furnished room off G Ward in the psychiatric department. It was unlocked. Someone had been careless. But then they thought she had been taking the tablets that would dull her senses and keep her under their control.

  She smiled to herself when she thought of the small pile of tablets pushed inside a gap in the stitching on the bottom of her blue plastic mattress. Somewhere they’d never think to look. She had been so careful to behave as though she had taken her medication. She had slurred her speech and shuffled around, placid and compliant, until they felt confident that she was no threat.

  But they had underestimated her.

  The Black Hen was hardly Emily Thwaite’s idea of the perfect pub. It looked all right from the outside with its old brick and blackened timbers, but the clientele left a lot to be desired. The small leaded windows and dim lighting gave it an aura of gloom rather than cosiness and there were a number of single, overweight men who undressed her with their eyes as she paid a visit to the Ladies. Small gaggles of morose young people with elaborate body piercings and black T-shirts bearing Satanic logos stood around with drinks as though they were waiting for something to happen. There was nobody in there she would have described as normal apart from a couple of American tourists who had wandered in there in search of the typical English pub and wandered out again after one drink, rather disillusioned.