by Kate Ellis
She was glad Joe was there by her side for more reasons than one. Not only did the company of a six-foot male provide moral and physical support, but she needed to question him further about his visit to Jane Pyke’s parents. She had to know how much they had revealed about their daughter’s life in Leeds. But she had to be careful not to arouse his suspicions.
As they sat there with their drinks in front of them, she asked her questions with a show of professional interest. But it seemed that Joe had already told her everything he knew. Jane Pyke’s parents had chosen not to mention the matter that was preying on her mind. And for this small mercy she was exceedingly grateful.
When they had drained their glasses and absorbed the strange, vaguely restless atmosphere, Joe made for the bar. Emily followed, looking at her watch. She should have been home by now to read her youngest a bedtime story instead of hanging round dodgy public houses with single male colleagues.
She nudged Joe’s arm as she caught up with him. ‘Don’t be long, will you?’
He didn’t answer. Instead he took John Wendal’s photograph from his pocket and began to show it to the bar staff. But the sight of Wendal’s smiling features produced no reaction. Nobody recognised him. He’d never been in there. As far as Joe could tell, they were either telling the truth or they were extremely good liars.
Photographs of Carla Yates and Harold Uckley also produced blank denials. It was only Janna Pyke’s image that was recognised. She used to come in occasionally but nobody would admit knowing anything about her disappearance or her death.
The staff suffered a similar attack of mass amnesia when Joe asked them about the attack on Tavy McNair the previous night. One of the barmen admitted that he had noticed Tavy drinking with a girl – he had been in with Janna a few times so he was a familiar face. But apart from that, nobody would admit to knowing anything of what had happened once McNair and his female companion had left the Black Hen. And nobody had seen anyone following them out. Joe knew they were lying but he didn’t pursue the matter any further.
‘We should have this place searched,’ Joe whispered as they left the pub.
‘Reason?’
‘I think this is where Jevons holds his meetings. And someone attacked Janna’s ex-boyfriend because he was asking questions.’
‘You think it could have some connection with the Resurrection Man?’
‘There is a ritualistic element to the murders.’
‘And you think the rituals took place at the Black Hen? You think they were killed there? Locked up in some sort of confined space and left to die?’ She stopped and swung round to face Joe. ‘Where’s your evidence, Joe? We can’t organise a search warrant on a whim. I think your talk to that friend of yours at the cathedral has made you over-imaginative. I think we’re looking for someone with psychiatric problems.’
‘The two approaches aren’t mutually exclusive.’
‘Trust me to be landed with a bloody ex-priest,’ she mumbled.
‘I was never ordained … couldn’t stick out the training,’ he replied, a smile playing on his lips. ‘I just think you should keep an open mind, that’s all.’
Emily didn’t answer. Perhaps Joe had a point but she was hardly going to admit it.
‘Tomorrow I’ll check out the shop on Boargate where Janna was last seen. The shop with paintings in the window. I want to know what she got up to after she left the flat in Vicars Green.’
‘Fine. You do that,’ she said impatiently. ‘I just hope that we find Mickey Friday. Reckon he’s into the occult?’
Joe snorted. ‘Can’t see it myself.’
‘Look, I’ve got to get home,’ she said when they reached the police station car park. She fumbled for her car keys, swearing under her breath.
‘Is something the matter?’ Joe asked.
‘Everything’s fine,’ she snapped before marching off towards her car.
Gloria Simpson had evaded her captors, or at least that’s how she saw it. She had to find him. She had to put an end to this once and for all. For her sake and the sake of the others.
She thought of the others. The women chained up, used by the men in masks who mated with them like animals. Her heart began to pound with the memories. The smell of sweat and blood in that dreadful room.
Sometimes she wondered what had driven her to get in so deep. But then she had believed. She hadn’t questioned it until she had seen what was done to the girl whose soul – and body – was given to Jack Wendal. And then there was what they were planning to do next. The ultimate ritual. She had been chosen. And she was terrified.
When she’d accepted the lift, the man had seemed so ordinary, even kindly … until the moment he’d revealed his true identity. She knew he was there to carry out the sentence that had been passed on her. He was going to take her soul. And now she knew she had to finish it once and for all. It was survival. It was her or him.
Her escape from the psychiatric ward was easier than she had expected. She had found her outdoor clothes hanging in the wardrobe in her room and had put them on before striding out confidently past patients and staff. She had once heard that if you walked in anywhere with enough confidence, your presence would never be challenged and now she knew it was true. A cleaner leaving the ward had held the door open for her and she had thanked her politely. Then it had been easy to make her way over to the main hospital. Nobody had even questioned her when she had picked up some fresh flowers from a vase in reception and enquired at the desk where she could find Mr Wendal.
As it had been so easy, it was obviously meant to be. She was to be the instrument of retribution. From now on she would be on the side of the angels. She had turned traitor.
When she found Wendal in a side ward she was relieved to see that he was on his own. There was nobody about to disturb her, staff or visitors, so she crept into the room and let the flowers in her hand drop to the floor. The machine by the bed emitted a regular, hypnotic bleep and she could hear him breathing softly. She stood quite still for a while, watching and listening, before she summoned the courage to approach the bed.
She walked towards the patient cautiously, like a child approaching a blazing fire. It had to be done and it had to be done quickly. After steeling herself and taking a deep, gulping breath, she began to pull at tubes and the machine’s noise turned into a low whine. A pillow lay on the chair by the bed. She picked it up, placed it over the patient’s face and pressed it down, harder and harder until the effort made her breathless.
Then, when the alarm sounded, shrieking in her ear like a demon, she was only vaguely aware of running feet. And rough hands hauling her away.
The Resurrection Man enjoyed his work. He enjoyed the sound of their muffled cries as he fastened the padlocks.
The question of why he hadn’t been given more work to do was starting to gnaw at his mind like an insistent rat. He was growing impatient. What had begun as a sacred duty was becoming a pleasure, almost a necessity. It was how he’d heard huntsmen felt as they pursued their quarry. The disposal of vermin had become a thrill to be anticipated and planned with loving care. A beautiful ritual – the chase and the kill.
She would be home at six. She had asked him to do some shopping for her and he’d done it at lunchtime. As he’d wandered around the supermarket he wondered whether anyone could tell that he had a secret. But how could they? He was so careful to hide it, to look and act just like everyone else. There was nothing wrong with his mind, he told himself time and time again. Only when the voices started on at him did he become afraid.
There had been a time when it had been better. Then the tablets had seemed to stop working and the voices, the fear, had returned. But since he had been chosen, he felt he had a new purpose. He was invincible now. He had power over life and death. And as he sat there reading the paper, staring at the photograph of Janna Pyke … he longed to feel that power coursing through his body again.
When the call came, he would be ready to rid the world of evil.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning Mickey Friday sat in the interview room and scratched his tattooed arm.
‘Where are you working now, Mickey?’ Sunny asked, watching the big man’s face.
‘The Cobweb Club. I’m a doorman.’
‘A bouncer.’
‘A doorman.’
‘Do they know about your record?’ Emily Thwaite gave the man a disarming smile. She had a splitting headache through lack of sleep and she knew she looked rough. But, like an actress, she felt obliged to put on a show for her public.
‘Dunno.’
It probably wouldn’t bother the Cobweb much if they did know Mickey Friday’s history, Sunny thought. Occupying the basement of an old warehouse on the banks of the river, at Eborby’s Victorian industrial end, it wasn’t the most salubrious establishment in town. It was a dive but Sunny had heard the drinks were remarkably cheap.
Emily placed the Archaeology Centre carrier bag and its contents, all neatly encased in plastic bags, on the table in front of her. ‘Can you explain how your fingerprints came to be on these items?’ she asked with a sweet smile.
‘Found ’em, didn’t I?’ was the rapid reply.
‘Where?’
‘Outside one of them shops … charity shops.’
‘You pinched clothes from a charity shop? Can’t get much lower than that, can you, Mickey? I mean …’
‘The shop wasn’t open … it was just left outside. I saw a handbag …’
‘And you couldn’t resist having a look?’
Mickey nodded.
‘And what did you find inside this irresistible handbag?’
Mickey swallowed hard. ‘Cash … about fifty quid. I chucked the credit cards away ’cause I reckoned they would have been reported missing and I didn’t want to be done for nicking ’em.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘I helped myself to the cash, binned the cards, then I dumped the lot in a skip. That’s the God’s honest truth. I never touched her … never even met her.’
‘Did you recognise the name on the credit cards from the TV reports of the murder?’
Mickey’s face turned red. ‘Yeah. That’s why I got rid quick. I never had nothing to do with no murder. I swear on my mother’s life.’
Sunny smirked. He knew Mickey’s mother from years back. In her heyday she had been one of Eborby’s more successful ladies of the night.
‘Where was the charity shop?’
‘I think it was that one on Little Marygate.’ He wrinkled his face in a show of concentration. ‘The one for that hospice. What’s it called?’
‘Mirebridge?’ Mirebridge Hospice was a popular local charity. Everyone knew it, even Sunny.
‘Yeah. That’s the one.’
‘You left a couple of prints on her things.’
Mickey shook his head, as though annoyed by his own carelessness. ‘I never thought.’
Emily’s eyes met Sunny’s. There was the shadow of a smile on her lips. Mickey Friday wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the box. And she doubted whether he was capable of committing such cruel and calculated murders. It just wasn’t his style.
But there were a couple of questions worth asking. ‘Ever heard of a pub called the Black Hen, Mickey?’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ was the wary answer.
‘Ever been there?’
Mickey shrugged. ‘Once or twice. I’ve been to most of the pubs in Eborby in my time,’ he added proudly.
‘Recognise this symbol?’ Emily grabbed a piece of paper and made a rough sketch of the symbol she had seen at Gloria Simpson’s flat and at the House of Terrors. She pushed the drawing towards Mickey who studied it for a few seconds.
‘What’s it supposed to be? A bull’s head or what?’
‘I hoped you’d tell us. Have you ever seen it before?’ Mickey shook his head and Emily rose from her seat with a sigh. It looked as though they’d hit another dead end.
Emily’s thoughts turned to Jamilla Dal, who had been sent to see Janna Pyke’s former landlady, Peta Thewlis, about gaining access to the possessions the dead girl had left at her old flat on Vicars Green. Perhaps Jamilla would come up with something. And if she did, Emily thought to herself, it might be wise to get over there.
The last thing Emily Thwaite wanted was an unpleasant surprise.
Tavy McNair had concluded that it wasn’t worth getting his injuries checked out by a doctor; after all, he’d only suffered a few cuts and bruises. He’d also said that he was going to tell his mother he’d fallen so that she wouldn’t worry.
Carmel Hennessy hadn’t seen him since the night they’d gone to the Black Hen and she felt an uncomfortable nag of worry. Perhaps she would ring his mobile later, she thought. Although she was reluctant to seem too keen, too needy. And she couldn’t help asking herself how much she really knew about Tavy. He seemed so nice … so plausible. But then he was an actor; it was his job to pretend. Sometimes she didn’t know what to believe any more.
She had slept on the sofa again because she hadn’t been able to face the bedroom and its atmosphere of sadness, and if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for work. Perhaps, she thought, she should get the flat exorcised. She had always thought of such things as nonsense … until now. Joe Plantagenet had once started training for the priesthood so maybe he could advise her. But she had bothered him too much already. She had to stand on her own two feet.
She picked up her bag and closed the flat door behind her carefully as the break-in was still preying on her mind, making her uneasy. She hurried down the stairs towards the front door and when she reached the bottom, she noticed that the door to Conrad Peace’s flat was open. Conrad’s niece, Elizabeth was standing framed in the doorway and she turned when she heard Carmel’s footsteps.
‘Morning. Another nice day,’ she said with a cheerful smile.
‘Yes. Let’s hope it lasts,’ Carmel replied automatically. She stopped in her tracks, wondering whether Conrad knew about Janna Pyke’s death. She would have expected something so momentous to have cropped up in conversation but nothing had been said. Perhaps he hadn’t heard about it. Perhaps he didn’t listen to the local TV news or read the newspapers.
‘Er … has your uncle heard that the girl who used to live in my flat was found murdered?’ she asked Elizabeth in a hushed voice. The last thing she wanted to do was to upset Conrad if it was a sensitive subject.
Elizabeth leaned forward. Carmel could smell her perfume, something exotic and expensive which rather surprised her: Elizabeth looked the light floral type. ‘He heard about it on the local radio news. It upset him a bit so I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything.’
‘Of course not,’ Carmel replied quickly.
‘I don’t suppose the police are any nearer catching this lunatic. You’re not safe anywhere nowadays. I remember when you could walk around Eborby at night and …’
The woman was twittering. And she was making Carmel nervous. ‘I know. It’s awful,’ was all Carmel could think of to say.
‘My uncle said that you know one of the detectives working on the case.’ There was a hint of accusation in Elizabeth’s voice … as though she suspected Carmel was withholding information deliberately.
‘Yes. He used to work with my late father.’
‘Has he mentioned anything …?’
Carmel shook her head. ‘I don’t suppose he’s allowed to say too much.’
‘I’m just glad I don’t have to work late at the hospital,’ said Elizabeth, wringing her hands. ‘Some of the nurses are terrified. Make sure you lock your doors, won’t you? And I’d be really grateful if you’d keep an eye on Uncle. Just make sure the front door isn’t left unlocked and that sort of thing.’
‘Don’t worry. I will,’ said Carmel, eager to make her escape.
As she made a show of looking at her watch, she thought of Peta Thewlis, sitting in her office near the entrance like a spider in her web, making a mental note of the time each member of staff arrived. ‘I’m sorry,
if I don’t go now, I’ll be late for work. I’ll keep an eye on Conrad, I promise. Look, next time you’re here, why don’t you come up for a cup of tea?’ She said the words on impulse and she wasn’t sure why she’d issued the invitation. Perhaps she was lonelier than she realised and yearning for company – any company. But now she had said it, there was no going back.
‘That’d be lovely. Thanks,’ Elizabeth said, sounding as though she meant it.
‘See you soon then.’
Carmel raised her hand in an awkward farewell and Elizabeth watched her go, a grateful smile on her lips.
*
It couldn’t be helped. Peta Thewlis knew she’d be late but some things were more important than work. She put her arms around her son and held him close, just as she had done when he was a small child.
‘Why did you do it, Tim?’ she asked gently, stroking her son’s back. She kissed the top of his head. ‘Why did you hurt yourself like that?’
He didn’t answer and she felt her heart beating fast. Ever since her husband had left because he couldn’t cope with Tim any more, she had borne the responsibility. Responsibility for Tim; responsibility for the financial side of things; responsibility for the house on Vicars Green that she had inherited from her father; responsibility at work where she knew her colleagues at the Archaeology Centre regarded her as a humourless stickler for the rules. But they didn’t know that her stiffness was a facade, the only way she could deal with life. If she let the mask slip, people would see the mess inside.
She brushed Tim’s cheek with her fingers but he shook off her caressing hand as the doorbell rang, shattering the tension between mother and son. Peta glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Tim wasn’t the only one who’d be late for work.
‘I’d better see who that is.’ She hurried out into the hall. She could see a dark shadow behind the stained glass in the door. A smallish shadow. Probably a woman.
She opened the door to find a young Asian woman standing on the step. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt and her jet-black hair was caught up in a ponytail. She held up an ID card and smiled. ‘Mrs Thewlis? I’m DC Jamilla Dal. I’m calling in connection with the murder of your former tenant, Janna Pyke. I believe she left some of her belongings at the flat you own in Vicars Green?’
