by Kate Ellis
It was a minute or so before Maddy came to the point. If Joe hadn’t already eaten would he like to come round for a meal? Nothing elaborate. Joe looked around his empty flat, thought of the ready-meal waiting for him in the freezer, and decided to live dangerously. He told her he’d love to accept her invitation – but he couldn’t be late as he had an early start in the morning. He added these last words as an insurance policy. He was wary of involvement. Involvement meant pain.
As he walked to Maddy’s house he made a mental note to ask her about the carrier bags. It was always good to have friends in high – or not so high – places. He felt a little apprehensive as he rang her doorbell – like a teenage boy on a date with a girl he’d admired from afar on the school bus. And he had to admit to himself that he admired Maddy. But the past made him cautious. Too cautious perhaps.
Maddy answered the door wearing a long ethnic dress and a shy smile. She looked good and she had a couple of raw steaks sitting on a plate, seasoned and waiting to be cooked. She had already prepared a salad and a crisp French loaf lay on the worktop. On the way Joe had visited the off licence on the corner to buy a decent bottle of wine. It was the least he could do.
They talked of trivialities and Carmel as they ate. Joe never liked bringing up the subject of murder over the dinner table but as the conversation lulled over the strawberry dessert, it seemed as good a time as any. ‘The clothes belonging to the Resurrection Man’s first two victims have turned up.’
Maddy was about to help herself to more cream but she withdrew her hand. ‘Where?’
‘Left outside a charity shop on Little Marygate. The Mirebridge Hospice shop. Do you know it?’
She nodded. ‘I know it.’
‘The clothes were in carrier bags from the Archaeology Centre shop. Both lots. Now if just one lot had been …’
Maddy’s eyes widened in alarm. Then she frowned. ‘So it could be one of our regular customers? It might be someone I’ve passed or talked to.’ Joe noticed she’d turned quite pale.
‘It could always be a member of staff.’ He watched her reaction carefully.
Maddy put her spoon down and stared at him, horrified. ‘You think someone I work with is the Resurrection Man? That’s absolute rubbish. There’s nobody remotely weird in that place. Some of them are a bit eccentric maybe but not serial-killer weird.’
‘How would you know?’ Joe was aware that he sounded impatient. But then he suddenly felt strained, tired. Perhaps the case was getting to him like he suspected it was getting to Emily Thwaite. He took a deep breath. ‘What about the company that supplies the bags?’
Maddy looked as if she liked this idea much better. ‘I’m sure Peta Thewlis’ll have their address.’
‘Good. I’ll send someone round tomorrow and I really must give Carmel a call … see how she is.’
Maddy studied Joe’s face for a few moments. ‘Tavy McNair’s not a suspect, is he? I wouldn’t like to think of Carmel …’
Joe pushed his empty dish away. ‘We’ve not ruled anybody out just yet. But let’s just say, he’s not at the top of our list. Not that we’ve got much of a list. This killer’s clever. He doesn’t leave many clues. We don’t even know where he kills them.’ He shook his head, longing to change the subject. The thought of his failure so far was too depressing to dwell on over a pleasant dinner.
At ten thirty he left, kissing Maddy first on the cheek then gently on the lips. He promised to call her and he meant to keep his promise. If the Resurrection Man didn’t get in his way.
Perhaps Dr Keith Webster would lead them in the right direction when they talked to him the next day. They needed some luck and they needed it fast … before someone else died.
Terry Jevons looked round as he locked the heavy oak door of the House of Terrors. He’d felt uneasy ever since the police began sniffing around. Janna Pyke had always been trouble. And now she was still causing him grief from beyond the grave. He wished he’d never taken her on when she turned up at the House of Terrors looking for a job. He wished he’d never clapped eyes on her.
But now Janna was dead and she couldn’t bother him any more. The thought gave him a warm glow of satisfaction. A minor irritation had been dealt with once and for all.
He put the keys in his pocket and looked at his watch. He’d have time to grab something to eat at home before going on to the Black Hen. Ever since the solstice meeting various people had been getting jittery and they needed bringing back into line. Perhaps what had happened with the sixteen-year-old, Amy whatever her name was, had been a mistake. Perhaps in future he’d ensure that he would always be able to employ the consenting adults excuse. Things had gone too far that time, he realised that now. And if Janna Pyke hadn’t kept going on about it, he wouldn’t have had to deal with her.
He walked quickly down the winding, noisy streets, ignoring the buskers and Big Issue sellers, picking his way through the stream of tourists and scantily clad girls. He wondered, not for the first time, whether they’d dress like that, exposing so much bare flesh, if they knew the effect they had on him. Arousing his imagination … and his memory of Amy.
As he made for his flat on the river bank, he kept his eyes fixed ahead, resisting temptation, and eventually he emerged from the shadow of the streets and cut across the wide expanse of grass by the museum car park. He lived on the first floor of a Georgian house that stood on the water’s edge, a stone’s throw from the castle built by William the Conqueror to subdue the unruly north but now reduced by war and time to a solitary tower on a grassy mound. The castle was a shadow of its former self, unlike his flat, which was spacious, with lofty ceilings and sanded wooden floors: the last word in modern living. Terry Jevons considered himself to be a man of taste and the House of Terrors provided him with a lifestyle that he knew his employees envied. He was a good advert for the cause, he thought with a smile. The devil looks after his own.
Once he turned the corner, the river came into view. He could see the ripples, sparkling in the late evening sun as a pair of rowers sped silently along the ribbon of water, like fast-moving insects. To his left, a group of students, chatting in some foreign tongue Jevons didn’t recognise, sprawled on the grassy bank beneath the squat grey Norman tower. It was a peaceful scene, a lazy summer evening in a city renowned for its history and its picturesque beauty. Jevons allowed himself a secretive smile. If only the tourists knew what lay beneath.
He was almost home. The Georgian terrace that housed his flat overlooked the river, an enviable position. No wonder it had cost a bomb. There were the occasional floods, of course, but they only affected the cellar – or the garden flat as it was known. On the first floor, he led a charmed life.
He opened the glossy black front door with his key and was about to step into the hallway when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and saw a shadow, there for a split second before it disappeared from sight into the dimness of the little alleyway at the side of the terrace.
Jevons stepped back from the front door and stood scanning the waterfront, shielding his eyes from the low evening sun. This was the third time he’d sensed somebody there. Following him. Watching him silently from the shadows.
Next time he’d be more alert. Next time he’d catch whoever it was. And he’d make them regret that they’d ever been born.
Chapter Fourteen
Joe Plantagenet arrived at the police station early the next morning. Emily Thwaite wasn’t in. But then she had kids to see to and a mother’s work, so he was reliably informed, was never done … especially when that mother happens to be in charge of a major murder enquiry. Joe supposed that her husband, being a teacher, was always on hand to look after the little Thwaites during the long school holidays. There were times he’d sensed that all wasn’t well between them. However, he had to acknowledge that he might be wrong.
Emily hadn’t mentioned her husband for a while, but then there’d been little time to exchange personal chit-chat. Joe had never met Jeff bu
t, with no evidence whatsoever, he had built up an unflattering mental picture of a henpecked husband, a little man who concerned himself with domestic matters while his briefcase-wielding wife pursued her high-powered career as a Detective Chief Inspector. The reality, he knew, would almost certainly be quite different. He was being influenced by long defunct stereotypes which would make the politically correct powers-that-be purple in the face with righteous rage. The thought made him smile, a small secret smile. No doubt he’d meet Jeff one day and all his naughty illusions would be shattered.
It was eight thirty before Emily put in an appearance. She had the harassed look of a woman with too much on her plate and Joe, unlike some, took pity on her. He followed her to her office and she sat down heavily.
‘It’s been one of those mornings,’ she sighed. ‘My youngest woke up complaining of a headache. There was an outbreak of meningitis at their last school. I was worried sick.’
Joe nodded sympathetically. Not being a parent himself, he didn’t quite understand the implications, but he guessed they were serious.
‘I’ll ring home later … see how he is.’
‘I’m sure your husband’ll keep an eye on him.’
‘Mmm.’ She didn’t sound altogether convinced. ‘Has … er, the Super been asking for me … or …?’
‘No, it’s been quiet. Is everything OK?’
There was a flash of alarm in Emily’s eyes that disappeared after a split second. ‘Yes. Why shouldn’t it be?’ She took a deep breath. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go in there and rally the troops. Anything come in overnight?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Only a report from Forensic saying that there were no fingerprints on the bag containing Harold Uckley’s clothes … and none on his wallet. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to wipe them off.’
‘Does that mean that the killer has a criminal record?’
Joe thought for a few moments. ‘It’s possible. But then everyone knows about prints these days. There’s far too many detective shows on TV.’
Emily nodded. ‘Is there anything you think requires our special attention today?’
‘Keith Webster – Janna Pyke’s supervisor at the university – owns the flat above the art gallery in Boargate where she was last seen and, according to the gallery owner, the last tenant was a young woman who fits Janna’s description. I don’t think our Dr Webster has been altogether honest with us. First he claims he hasn’t seen her for two weeks and now it looks highly likely that he let her use his flat when she moved out of Vicars Green.’ The mention of the flat reminded him that he had to pick up the painting he’d bought before the art shop closed that evening. ‘The question is, if the tenant was Janna, why did he lie? What’s he trying to hide?’
‘We’d better check it out – top priority.’
‘I wonder if Webster has any connection with the Black Hen. That place stinks like a barrel-load of rotting fish.’
Emily wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s one way of putting it. I reckon we should be digging a bit deeper – make life uncomfortable for them.’ She paused for a moment. ‘We need to find some connection between Janna Pyke and the other two victims. She was receiving threats …’
‘But there’s no evidence that the others were. And we’ve already established that whoever was threatening her didn’t know she’d moved out of her flat.’
‘It could be a double bluff to put us off the trail.’
Joe shrugged. It was possible but he wasn’t convinced. ‘I want to get more background on Janna. I’m going to send Jamilla to talk to that friend of hers who works in the fish and chip shop … Gemma.’
Emily leaned forward. ‘I think that’d be a waste of time.’
‘Maybe,’ said Joe, slightly taken aback with the vehemence of Emily’s judgement. ‘But I’d still like to find out more about …’
She didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. ‘I’ll need Jamilla at Evanshaw to coordinate house-to-house enquiries. I want everyone in the village questioned in case they saw anything on the night Janna Pyke’s body was dumped. Someone might have seen a strange vehicle in the vicinity.’
Joe couldn’t fault Emily’s logic but he still wondered why she’d been so dismissive of his desire to enquire into Janna’s past. Perhaps he’d ask her if the moment was ever right.
Emily’s briefing took half an hour. Joe’s last DCI had liked the sound of his own voice but Emily’s manner was brisk and businesslike as developments were noted and plans made for the day. When the team dispersed, she touched his arm. ‘You and me should go to the university … ask Webster a few pertinent questions.’
Twenty minutes later they’d tracked Keith Webster down in his office. And he didn’t look at all pleased to see them.
‘I’m teaching in half an hour,’ he said tersely after greeting them with a scowl. ‘I can’t give you long.’
Emily sat herself down on the easy chair beside his desk, a sign that she had no intention of moving. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to give us as long as it takes to sort a few things out, Dr Webster. You might have to cancel your lecture.’
Webster opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Then he sank down into his seat, resigned.
Emily caught Joe’s eye and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
‘You own a flat above an art shop on Boargate,’ he said. A statement of fact.
Webster looked wary. ‘I don’t see how that concerns you.’
‘It wouldn’t concern us …’ He paused for a second. He wasn’t absolutely sure of his facts but it was best to sound confident. ‘If Janna Pyke hadn’t been staying there before she disappeared. Why didn’t you tell us she’d been living there, Dr Webster? What were you trying to hide from us?’
Webster put his head in his hands. ‘OK, OK. I admit I let Janna use the flat. It was empty and she was desperate to get away from the place she’d been living in. She said she’d been receiving threats and she was scared stiff – really frightened – so I said she could use the flat for a while. I did a student a favour, that’s all.’
‘She left her other place without paying the rent.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with me. I didn’t know.’
‘Did she tell you why she was so afraid?’
‘Like I said, someone was threatening her. They kept phoning her.’
‘She never said what it was about?’
Webster shook his head. ‘Never.’ He hesitated. ‘This might sound stupid but she thought her old flat was haunted. I told you she’d changed the subject of her dissertation, didn’t I? She abandoned her research on the Black Death in 1348 and started investigating a group of people in the late Tudor period known as the Seekers of the Dead. She became obsessed with a young girl who’d died in her old flat in 1603 and she was coming out with some pretty weird things. She said the girl talked to her and … To tell you the truth, I was worried about her state of mind. I thought it would be best all round if she moved into my flat till she sorted herself out. She refused at first … then the threats started and she changed her mind.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before? Why did you lie about seeing her?’
‘I didn’t want to get involved. I thought if you knew, I’d get mixed up in all this mess.’
Joe looked at Emily but neither made any comment.
‘Did she leave anything in the Boargate flat?’
Webster looked away. ‘I went there when she didn’t turn up for our meetings.’
‘When was this?’
‘It must have been …’ He thought for a few moments. ‘About three days before she was found. She’d not shown up for a while so I thought I’d go and see what was going on. I thought she might have been ill or something.’
‘So you went to the flat and let yourself in.’
A nod.
‘What did you find?’
‘The place was like the Marie Celeste. It was as if she’d just stepped out for half an hour … as if she’d expected to come back
. I looked around but there was no clue as to where she’d gone. Look, when I heard her body had been found I was going to contact you …’
‘But you never got round to it.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in Emily’s voice. She’d heard it all before. ‘So all her stuff’s still there?’
Webster nodded. ‘I haven’t had the heart to touch it. It’s all there. Just as she left it.’
‘How long have you owned the flat, Dr Webster?’ Joe asked, just out of curiosity.
‘I inherited it from an aunt. My wife doesn’t know about it so I’d be grateful if …’
‘So you often let female students use it? Do they pay rent?’ Emily asked, looking at him innocently.
Webster’s face reddened. ‘I sometimes let it out to students,’ he answered. ‘Not all of them female.’
Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘If you’d be good enough to let us have the key, Dr Webster, we’d like to take a look around.’
Webster opened the top drawer of his desk and meekly handed over a Yale key tied to a loop of red ribbon. ‘You’ll let me have it back when you’ve finished, won’t you? I’ve a post-grad student who’s looking for somewhere to live and I thought …’
‘As soon as we’ve finished, I promise,’ said Joe with a businesslike smile, not mentioning that if the flat was found to be a crime scene, the wait might be a long one.
It took ten minutes to walk from the university’s history department to Boargate through narrow streets and snickle-ways, and when they arrived at the art shop Joe was glad to see that the picture of Nearland Abbey had been removed from the window.
‘I bought a painting here yesterday … couldn’t resist it,’ he said to Emily who was standing beside him, slightly breathless. She had mentioned that she wasn’t used to walking briskly. In Leeds she had travelled everywhere by car.
‘They’re very nice,’ she said absentmindedly, turning the key to Keith Webster’s flat over and over in her hand. She made for the door at the side of the shop and placed the key in the lock. It turned smoothly.
