by Kate Ellis
The phone on Sunny’s desk rang and he rushed to answer it. After a brief conversation, he turned to Joe, a wide grin on his face.
‘That was the hospital again. Wendal’s come round. Must have been the shock.’
Joe smiled to himself. It was about time they had some good news for a change.
The killer wasn’t sure what to call it. A box? A sarcophagus? A coffin? It stood there on the ledge. Empty. Awaiting its next occupant. He put out his hand and stroked the wood that he had trimmed and planed with loving care and lined with plastic sheeting. Ideal for its purpose.
The torch was flickering. He would have to remember to buy batteries. In the dim light he could make out the other coffins, the ones that contained the bones of long-dead members of the Gosson family – upright and wealthy citizens of Victorian Eborby who had built the mausoleum in the middle of the municipal cemetery to house their remains and ensure that their memory was held in respect. There they lay sleeping, oblivious to the horrors happening in their last resting place.
When the killer had first found the place he’d gone round the walls reading their names on the small tarnished plaques attached to their coffins: three George Gossons; four Edward Gossons; six Anne Gossons; the names repeated over the generations. The Gossons, so he’d read, had owned a successful shop in the city. They had been ‘trade’, not old money. Old money built elaborate tombs in churches. The Victorian nouveau riche built their classical mausoleums … just like this one.
The last burial in the Gosson Mausoleum – last official one, that is – had taken place in the 1930s, so the hinges and lock on the great iron door behind the classical portico had needed attention. All it had taken was a can of oil and the doors of death had opened to him, welcoming him in.
He felt quite safe there, inside with the sleeping dead. Nobody came to that part of the cemetery any more and he was grateful for its overgrown air of neglect because it meant his work could continue undisturbed.
He stood there in the weakening torchlight, listening. He could hear voices and he froze, not moving a muscle. He waited, alert as a wild animal to the sound of hunters, until the voices had faded into the distance.
He had to be sure that nobody stumbled across this place of death; his special place. He knew that sooner or later the order would come again … and that the coffin, so solid and so lovingly fashioned, would have a new occupant.
Chapter Thirteen
John Wendal was in no state to be interviewed just yet, which was exactly what Joe had expected. The man would need time to recover, but time was something they didn’t have. The Resurrection Man might, or might not, be associated with Wendal. Or perhaps Wendal himself was the killer and he had an accomplice who’d disposed of Janna Pyke’s body and the clothes of the first two victims. The possibilities were endless and Joe was growing desperate. The Resurrection Man was out there. And there was no reason to suppose that he wouldn’t strike again. For some killers murder is addictive.
Jamilla’s visit to Vicars Green had proved disappointing. She had crawled up into the loft above the victim’s old flat and brought two bin bags filled with Janna Pyke’s possessions – mainly clothes and shoes with a few CDs – back to the police station as Emily Thwaite had requested.
The DCI had insisted on examining them herself, ordering them to be taken to her office then going through them alone, shunning help, almost possessive. Joe wondered whether she was asserting her authority – demonstrating that she was in personal control of every aspect of the case – or whether there was something else behind her thoroughness; some private knowledge she was keeping from her colleagues so she could claim the glory when the case was cracked, perhaps. But Emily’s search proved fruitless and she concluded that Janna’s things had been abandoned because the clothes had seen better days. And it was possible that she just didn’t like the CDs any more.
Joe felt quite disappointed. He had hoped to find some clue to Janna’s life – and possibly her death – amongst her possessions. But if she had left any clues, they lay elsewhere. Probably in the place where she’d spent the last few weeks of her life. Wherever that was.
After checking whether Forensic had found any fingerprints on Harold Uckley’s belongings and being told that they were still being examined, Joe decided to check out the art shop in Boargate where Janna had last been seen by her colleague from the House of Terrors. He armed himself with a photograph of Janna provided by her parents – a photograph of a slightly younger Janna with mouse-brown hair – and looked at his watch. It was four o’clock so, with luck, the shops would still be open when he got there.
When he told Emily about his plans she seemed a little distracted. He suspected she was under pressure from above. Or maybe there was something wrong that he didn’t know about … something at home. People had their problems. Perhaps he’d enquire tactfully, unobtrusively, when they had a free moment. Up till now he hadn’t been able to fault the way she was handling the investigation, but if she was being distracted – if her mind wasn’t on the job – perhaps he should have a quiet word. He’d see how things developed.
Joe arrived in Boargate to find that the tourists were out in force and the street had an almost carnival atmosphere. Hanging baskets filled with begonias and geraniums dangled from the lampposts, the cheerful colours vying with the bright shirts of a band of chattering Americans. A Roman centurion in authentic costume strolled through the crowd – smiling an unmilitaristic smile as he handed out leaflets advertising a tour of the city’s Roman heritage – while a pair of rival living statues struck unnatural poses on their painted platforms in the middle of the street.
As he wove his way through all this milling activity, Joe discovered that there were three shops selling works of art. But he supposed this was only to be expected in a street in the very heart of the tourist area.
He drew a blank at the first shop – a small establishment specialising in watercolours by local artists. Nobody of Janna Pyke’s description had visited the premises. The upper floor, jutting out over the narrow street, was used as an office by an advertising agency and nobody there recognised Janna’s photograph either.
The second shop was a hybrid – an exclusive gift shop that also sold paintings and sculptures. Hardly Janna’s scene. Their upper floor, Joe was told by a snooty young woman, was used for storage. And she had never set eyes on Janna; she was quite sure of that.
The third shop stood at the end of Boargate, almost on the junction with Little Marygate. The window was crammed with colourful oil paintings bearing alarmingly expensive price tags and there was a door to the left of the shop front that looked as though it might lead up to an upstairs flat. Joe stood outside on the cobbled street staring at the paintings in the window for a while. He liked them. The artist had captured the light and landscape of the countryside north of Eborby with great skill. There was a particularly evocative one of Nearland Abbey, showing its great broken arch reaching up to the cloud-spattered sky. But he couldn’t stand there appreciating the art all day. He pushed open the door and stepped inside the shop.
A middle-aged, rather camp, man with a ponytail greeted him like a long-lost friend, assuming he was interested in the wares on show. When Joe showed his warrant card, the man became less effusive, but he still remained on the right side of cooperative.
‘Yes, there is a flat upstairs,’ he said in answer to Joe’s first question. ‘But I haven’t seen anyone there for a week or so.’
‘Who lives there?’
‘A young woman, I think. She only moved in recently and I haven’t seen much of her. I mean, whoever lives up there doesn’t have to come through the shop or anything like that so I might not see them from one week to the next.’ The man gave a dramatic shrug.
‘Do you own the flat?’
The man put a hand to his lips as though he found the suggestion rather amusing. ‘Oh dear me, no. I rent the shop but the flat’s owned by someone different, I think.’ He suddenly seemed to become
bored with the subject of the upstairs flat and he turned his attention to the art on display. ‘These paintings were done by my partner. He captures the light so well, don’t you think?’
‘They’re extremely good,’ said Joe honestly. ‘But at the moment I’m more interested in who owns the flat.’
‘I don’t know his name but I did hear that he has something to do with the university. But don’t quote me on that. I could be wrong.’
‘The young woman who lives there … can you describe her?’
The man made a great display of thought, twisting his features in mock concentration. ‘Oh, let me think. She has black hair … and dresses in black. What do they call them?’
‘Goths?’
‘That’s right. To be honest with you, she doesn’t look as if she could afford a flat like that on her own. But you never know, do you?’
‘No, you don’t,’ Joe replied, searching his pocket for Janna Pyke’s photograph. When he found it he held it out. ‘Is this her?’
A pair of glasses hung from a chain around the man’s neck – he put them on and peered at the picture. ‘Possibly. But her hair was darker – maybe she’s dyed it black. I only caught a few glimpses of her and they all look the same, don’t they?’ He took the photograph from Joe and suddenly frowned. ‘Hey, isn’t this the girl who was on the telly? The one who was murdered?’ His hand fluttered to his mouth. ‘Oh dear. That’s awful …’
‘Yes, it is.’ Joe replaced the picture carefully in his wallet. ‘Well, thank you for your help.’ He hesitated, his eyes on the painting of Nearland Abbey. ‘Er … you don’t give discounts, do you? Only …’
The man gave him an obsequious smile. ‘For the boys in blue, anything,’ he said with a cheeky wink. ‘Fifteen per cent do you?’
‘Very nicely, thanks. Put a sold sticker on that one, please.’ He pointed to his choice. ‘I’ll pick it up tomorrow.’
When Joe returned to the police station, rather pleased with his impulsive purchase, he asked one of the DCs to check out who owned the upstairs flat and half an hour later he had an answer.
The flat on the upper floor of number five Boargate was owned by a Dr Keith Webster. Janna Pyke’s supervisor at the University.
As soon as Carmel put her key in the door, she was aware of someone in the hallway. For a split second, her imagination supplied a pair of thugs from the Black Hen lurking there, awaiting her return so that they could warn her off as they’d warned Tavy. But, as she opened the door wider, she was relieved to see Conrad’s niece, Elizabeth, standing there.
‘I hoped I’d see you,’ she said quickly, touching Carmel’s arm as though she were about to share a confidence. ‘Uncle Conrad’s having a nap.’
Carmel was tired but she forced herself to smile. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?’ Elizabeth had something on her mind and Carmel was curious to know what it was.
‘Thank you. That’d be nice,’ Elizabeth said as she began to follow Carmel up the stairs. ‘Look, do you know anything about that policewoman who called earlier? She had the key to the front door and she went up to the loft.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know anything. You’re sure she was a policewoman?’
‘That’s what she told Conrad. She was young, Asian. She showed him her identification and everything and he said she seemed very nice but now he’s worrying that she was bogus. You know how these old people worry. I just thought that policeman you know might have mentioned …’
‘No, sorry.’ She hadn’t been in contact with Joe Plantagenet for a while and, even if she had, he would hardly have kept her up to date on the minutiae of his investigations.
Carmel unlocked the door of her flat and stepped aside so that her guest could enter first.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said as Elizabeth looked around, her eyes taking in every detail.
‘Thank you. It’s very cosy, isn’t it? Not as big as Conrad’s but …’
Carmel wondered whether to mention the girl – her ghostly flatmate – but decided against it. She didn’t want Elizabeth to think she was mad. Or going the way of Janna Pyke, obsessed with the dark side. She made the tea and sat down, racking her brains for something to say.
It was Elizabeth who broke the awkward silence. ‘How are you settling in? Are you liking Eborby?’
‘Oh yes. But it’s always hard coming to a strange town where you don’t know anyone, isn’t it?’
Elizabeth smiled. ‘I suppose it is. Not that I’ve ever done it. I’ve lived in Eborby all my life. And my family’s local.’
‘What about your husband? Is he from Eborby?’ She’d noticed a plain gold band on the third finger of Elizabeth’s left hand and concluded that there was bound to be a husband.
But a spasm of pain passed over Elizabeth’s face and Carmel immediately regretted her question. ‘He was from Eborby. He died suddenly some years ago. They said it was a heart attack.’ She spoke the last words as though there was some doubt.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Carmel quickly, wondering how she could change the subject. The last thing she wanted to do was to upset the woman. Then she suddenly recalled the photograph of the little girl in Conrad’s flat – the dead great-niece – and wondered if she’d been Elizabeth’s child. But she wasn’t going to ask and risk reopening old wounds. Perhaps that was why she had sensed a hidden sadness behind Elizabeth’s cheerful common sense.
For the remainder of Elizabeth’s visit, Carmel kept the conversation light, asking about Elizabeth’s work at the hospital and learning about the virtues of her boss, Dr Oakley, who was, according to Elizabeth, a wonderful man. She wouldn’t be the first secretary to be a little in love with her boss, Carmel thought, but she said nothing. She liked Elizabeth but she couldn’t imagine she’d ever be close enough to her to share confidences.
After half an hour Elizabeth glanced at her watch and stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea, Carmel. Knowing that Uncle Conrad has a good neighbour has taken a lot of worry off my shoulders if the truth were known. The last girl …’ She hesitated.
‘How well did you know her?’ Carmel couldn’t resist asking the question.
Elizabeth looked a little alarmed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say I knew her … knew of her more like.’ She pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘She was trouble, that girl.’
‘You mean she upset Conrad?’
‘That and … Well, she caused a lot of trouble for a friend of mine as well.’ Her eyes were aglow with righteous indignation. ‘She was evil … didn’t care who she hurt. She—’ Suddenly she checked herself and attempted to smile. ‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, should you?’
When Elizabeth left, Carmel stood at the window and watched her walk away across the green. She was a sensible woman in sensible clothes. Not one, Carmel would have thought, to overdramatise. Even her personal tragedies had been spoken of with stoical self-control. But she had described Janna Pyke as evil. And Carmel wondered exactly what Janna had done to deserve such a damning description.
Perhaps the evil she sensed in the flat didn’t belong to the ghost girl. Perhaps it was Janna’s.
Joe had rung Keith Webster’s number at the university but there had been no answer. Then, at six thirty, just as he was about to leave the police station, an elderly man had turned up at the front desk, saying that he had seen John Wendal pick up Gloria Simpson in his car. He had only just got back from Norfolk where he’d been staying with his daughter and that’s why he hadn’t come forward earlier.
He had been walking his dog when he had seen Gloria, a lady in distress, standing by her car looking worried. He had asked her what was wrong and when she said she had run out of petrol, he had flagged down a passing motorist – a man he now knew to be John Wendal through the report in the local newspaper that his wife had pointed out to him that lunchtime.
Wendal had seemed a normal, friendly sort of man and he had offered to drop Gloria off at a petrol station a mile down the road and give her a lift back to her car with a
full can of petrol. The dog walker had thought he’d done his good deed for the day by facilitating this arrangement and had gone home, oblivious to the consequences of his actions. He had left for Norfolk a couple of hours later and had only returned yesterday.
As far as the witness could tell, Wendal and Gloria had never seen each other before in their lives. There had been no hint of recognition and any conversation between them had seemed polite and formal. She had expressed her gratitude and, what was more important, she had behaved perfectly calmly.
Joe thought about the man’s statement as he walked home. Something cataclysmic must have occurred during the short journey to the petrol station. Perhaps Wendal had tried to attack her. But that didn’t really make sense. He had been driving when she went berserk and caused him to crash the car into a tree. If he had wanted to rape or kill her then, presumably he’d have driven to a deserted spot and parked the car before making his move. He pondered this puzzle all the way to his front door but couldn’t come up with an answer.
Once he had showered and put on his jeans and white T-shirt, he felt better, as though he was no longer tainted with the scent of blood and murder. He poured himself a Black Sheep Ale and sat down heavily on the leather sofa. From where he sat he could see the city walls through the window, a barrier between him and the city, between his refuge and the Resurrection Man who would surely kill again. The only question was when? And who?
As he drained his glass, his mobile phone began to ring. He looked at the unfamiliar number on the display and answered with a wary hello. When he heard Maddy Owen’s voice on the other end of the line he told her he’d been intending to call her, hoping he sounded convincing, and asked her how she was. But they soon got on to the subject of Carmel. She was fine, Maddy said – still a little shaken by the attack on Tavy McNair but, apart from that, fine.
