Seeking the Dead

by Kate Ellis

  ‘No, thank you. I’d better get back to my Norman.’ Mrs Jenkins always talked about her husband as though he was completely dependent on her, like a child or an invalid, in spite of the fact that Norman was a hale and hearty sixty-eight-year-old who worked hard in his garden and ran the occasional half marathon.

  Emily saw her out and watched as she let herself into her front door. According to Mrs Jenkins, who repeated the mantra each time they met, ‘you can’t be too careful with this killer about’. Emily was glad she hadn’t said it tonight – she felt bad enough as it was.

  After creeping upstairs to check on the children, two of whom were fast asleep while the eldest was reading the latest Harry Potter, Emily poured herself a glass of red wine from the open bottle in the kitchen. Then she settled down on the sofa Mrs Jenkins had just vacated and took some reports out of her briefcase. But she found she couldn’t concentrate. She kept glancing at the clock, wondering where Jeff had got to.

  At eleven she felt her eyes closing but she felt she couldn’t go to bed until he was home. She kept looking at the clock. Eleven ten. Eleven fifteen. Eleven twenty. Then eventually, at eleven twenty-five, she heard his key in the door and she leapt off the sofa and rushed out into the hall.

  ‘Where have you been?’ was her first question. She tried to sound casual, to keep the anxiety she felt out of her voice. ‘And what’s that on your shirt? It looks like blood.’

  Jeff avoided her eyes. He looked pale and a little shaken. ‘There was a bit of trouble at the pub. Someone broke a bottle and thrust it at someone’s arm. Don’t know what it was all about but …’

  ‘Which pub?’ she asked.

  ‘Drayman’s Arms. I had a call from someone I taught with in Leeds … he’s in Eborby visiting his brother.’

  ‘What’s his name? Do I know him?’

  It might have been her imagination but she was sure she had seen a brief flash of panic cross her husband’s face. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘What subject did he teach?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Er … modern languages.’ He looked down at his pale-blue denim shirt, spattered with blood. ‘I’ll put this in to soak, shall I?’

  He turned to leave the room but she caught hold of his arm, gripping it tight. ‘When was the last time you saw Jane Pyke?’

  Jeff’s jaw dropped open. He shook off her clinging hand and took a step back. ‘Not since … I swear, I haven’t seen her since she …’

  ‘You haven’t seen her since we’ve been in Eborby?’

  ‘Of course not. I swear.’

  ‘Where were you the other night … the night before her body was found?’

  ‘You know where I was – I told you before. I went to the supermarket and then I had to queue up for petrol.’ Jeff shook his head in disbelief. ‘This is bloody ridiculous.’

  Her fingers fluttered towards his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that …’

  Jeff put his hands on her shoulders, his face close to hers. ‘Don’t you see, Em? This is exactly what she loved to do … to cause trouble. How come she can even get to me from beyond the grave?’

  Tears started to prick Emily’s eyes. ‘I’m investigating her murder. I’m in charge of the case and I don’t know how much longer I can keep your name out of it.’

  Jeff clenched his fists. ‘You know I can’t face going over all that again. Try. Please.’

  Emily turned away from her husband, wiping a stinging tear away with the back of her hand. And that night she hardly slept at all.

  Joe Plantagenet had rung Maddy Owen about the Archaeology Centre carrier bags that afternoon, to see whether she had any suggestions about who might have access to them and to cover any ground Sunny might have missed. Of course it might have been better to ask the person in charge of the shop … but he’d wanted another excuse to talk to Maddy, to hear her voice again. Once the questions were out of the way, he’d found himself asking what she was doing that evening and she’d told him she was planning to go round to Carmel Hennessy’s flat. She was a little concerned about Carmel, even though the girl kept assuring her that she was fine.

  After the call, Joe had felt uncomfortable. The old guilt kept nagging away. The psychologist he’d seen after Kevin’s death predicted that he’d feel guilty because he’d survived while Kevin hadn’t and he supposed that feeling responsible for Kevin’s daughter was all part of the same syndrome.

  As soon as he’d arrived home, Maddy called on his mobile to say that Carmel had invited him to join them for a takeaway that evening. Joe was surprised that he felt a thrill of eager anticipation as he examined his image in the mirror and sprayed on the expensive aftershave he’d received from his sister at Christmas. Even though he’d been thinking of Maddy a great deal, he hadn’t expected to feel like a callow teenager at the prospect of seeing her again. But life has a habit of surprising you when you least expect it.

  It was Maddy who answered the front door of five Vicars Green when he arrived at eight, armed with a bottle of red wine. He’d heard her footsteps thudding down the carpeted stairs and when she opened the door wearing a little denim dress and a wide smile, his pulse rate increased.

  She led the way upstairs. ‘I ordered Chinese … is that all right?’ she asked and Joe nodded. Chinese was fine.

  When they reached the flat, Carmel stood up and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and thanked him for coming as Maddy bustled into the kitchen to fetch the plates.

  Joe sat down opposite Carmel. ‘No more trouble with funny phone calls and letters?’

  Carmel gave him a shy smile. ‘No. Whoever it was must have heard that Janna Pyke’s dead by now.’ She shuddered. ‘Are you any nearer catching who …?’

  ‘We’re doing our best.’ He hoped he hadn’t sounded too defensive.

  ‘I’ve been feeling pretty nervous when I’m in the flat alone.’

  ‘There’s someone downstairs, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes … Mr Peace. And his niece, Elizabeth, is there quite a bit. She’s very nice.’ She gave a shy smile. ‘And Tavy’s been round a few times.’

  ‘Good,’ he said automatically, uncertain whether Tavy’s presence was a good thing or not.

  ‘Is Tavy—?’ She stopped herself in mid-sentence.

  ‘Is Tavy what?’

  ‘I know it’s a strange thing to ask, but is he on your list of suspects?’

  Joe leapt on the question. ‘You don’t trust him?’

  ‘Of course I do. There’s no way he could do anything like that.’

  She didn’t sound altogether convinced and Joe suddenly felt sorry for the girl. She was experiencing misgivings … asking herself if she could trust her instincts. But what could he tell her? Tavy McNair wasn’t top of their list of suspects, such as it was, at the moment. But he had been going out with Janna Pyke and he’d had some involvement with the Black Hen so he hadn’t been ruled out of their investigation. ‘You’ll have to make your own mind up,’ he said to Carmel gently. ‘All I can say is that we don’t intend to arrest him in the immediate future.’

  ‘But that could change?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ He saw the look of disappointment on her face but what else could he have said? He had to be honest. If he’d assured her of Tavy’s innocence and then they found evidence against him, she’d have been off her guard. And vigilance was all important.

  ‘My mum’s been on the phone, panicking. At least I can tell her you’ve been round … keeping an eye on me.’ She grinned and he smiled back as though there was a conspiracy between them to keep Sandra happy.

  Joe was relieved when Maddy entered the room with three glasses and a bottle of wine. ‘The Happy Dragon said it’d be half an hour.’

  Maddy sat by Joe. It was a small sofa and their bodies touched. She made no attempt to move away and neither did he. She turned her head towards him and smiled. ‘One of your colleagues came round to the centre just after you phoned, asking more questions about those carrier
bags.’

  Joe glanced at Carmel. ‘What was it all about?’ she asked. It seemed the information hadn’t filtered down to her.

  Joe hesitated. There was no way he could dress this up prettily in tactful words and euphemisms. ‘The clothes of the Resurrection Man’s first two victims were found in Archaeology Centre carrier bags. We’re checking who could have got hold of them …’

  Carmel’s hand went up to her mouth. ‘You mean it might be someone who works with us?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Joe quickly. ‘It could be someone who’s bought large items in the shop … or someone from the firm that supplies the bags. We’ve got to cover all possibilities.’

  Maddy frowned. ‘I can’t think of anyone at the centre who could possibly be a killer.’

  Joe looked at Maddy. ‘Is there anyone at all who might have any connection with the Black Hen?’

  Maddy thought for a few moments and shook her head. ‘We’ve got plenty of amiable eccentrics there but nobody seriously weird. Most people tend to drink at the Mitre near the cathedral and I’ve certainly never heard anyone mentioning the Black Hen.’ She looked at Carmel for confirmation and she nodded. She had visited the Mitre with her new colleagues a couple of times and had found them an unthreatening bunch.

  ‘Our boss, Peta Thewlis, was Janna Pyke’s landlady,’ said Maddy. ‘That’s a connection. Mind you, I can’t see Peta in a place like the Black Hen … or murdering anyone for that matter.’

  ‘What’s Peta like?’

  Maddy glanced at Carmel and pulled a face. ‘She’s known as Frosty Thewlis. Not exactly approachable. But I can’t see her being involved in anything dodgy. Anyway, she told me once she doesn’t go out much. She has to look after her son.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly, but he’s grown up … not a child. I think he’s disabled in some way but she never talks about it. Her husband walked out a few years ago.’

  ‘I feel sorry for her,’ said Carmel softly, giving Maddy a critical glance.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Given her circumstances, it’s hardly surprising that the poor woman’s not the life and soul of the party.’

  Maddy looked uncomfortable but she made noises of agreement. She didn’t like Peta Thewlis but it seemed churlish to say so in the face of the woman’s misfortunes.

  The subject of murder was avoided for the rest of the evening and at ten thirty Joe walked Maddy home.

  As they made their way back to her house together, their hands hardly touching, Joe found himself dreading the return to his own small, lonely flat that night. The way he was feeling, he needed some company. He hoped she’d ask him in. He hoped she’d ask him to stay. But he’d always had a fear of taking things too quickly so he said nothing. And when they arrived at Maddy’s front door she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. She had to work in the morning. Would he ring her soon?

  He said he would and, as he watched her disappear into the house, he experienced a feeling of disappointment … and deep loneliness.

  The hinges on the great iron door of the Gosson Mausoleum had been well oiled and, as it yielded to a firm push, it swung open silently.

  The killer had parked the van on the path and opened the back doors, using a torch to see what he was doing as there was no moon that night. The coffin lay there on the shelf just inside the door, open, welcoming, waiting to be fed. It wouldn’t take him long to die. They never took very long, although he wouldn’t come back for a while … just to be sure.

  The folded trolley was pitted with rust but still perfectly usable. He manoeuvred it out from beside the coffin and pulled it up until the catch gave a satisfying snap before wheeling it out to the van and opening the rear doors. A parcel, the size and shape of a man, lay on the van floor and the killer stood for a moment, contemplating what was to come. Then, after a few moments of pleasurable anticipation, he dragged the parcel out on to the trolley and wheeled it slowly towards the gaping entrance of the mausoleum, which stood waiting to devour the victim like the jaws of death.

  Once the coffin had been closed he stood and listened. He could hear faint sounds of movement … flutterings and muffled groans. The victim was coming round. The sound of the chains being wrapped around the box shattered the stale air and the killer looked round nervously as though he was afraid that the noise would wake the rows of decaying Gossons ranged around the walls.

  He smiled to himself as he locked the mausoleum door behind him. Another one done. In a few days it would be time to chose an appropriate resting place … a churchyard where the dead could be at peace.

  But in the meantime, there were things he had to do.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Joe rang the hospital as soon as Emily’s morning briefing was over. He wanted to speak to Dr Oakley as soon as possible. However, Oakley’s secretary told him that the doctor wasn’t available until the afternoon. She’d call him as soon as Oakley was free, she said, as though she was doing him a great favour.

  Feeling restless at this change to his intended schedule, Joe started flicking through the papers on his desk.

  One name leapt out. Janna Pyke. The other victims seemed to have been ordinary, innocent people, possibly chosen by the killer at random. But there was something different about Janna. He remembered years ago, when he was a child, his mother commenting in passing that some local girl who’d gone off the rails was ‘the sort of girl who gets herself murdered’. He didn’t understand then how his mother had reached this harsh judgement, but in the case of Janna Pyke he suspected that the phrase might just be appropriate. She had been involved with some dubious people, she had received threats, she had been sleeping with her married tutor, she had given her parents hell. Janna Pyke was trouble. Probably had been since the day she was born.

  He stared at the file on her murder, deep in thought. He had once read a book in which a killer murdered a series of innocent people unconnected with him just so that he could make the murder he actually wanted to commit look like the work of a serial killer. What if the Resurrection Man had only wanted to dispose of Janna Pyke, and the others – Carla Yates and Harold Uckley – had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been killed to provide some sort of smokescreen? It was a sobering thought and he wondered if he should run it past Emily Thwaite when she returned from her meeting with the Superintendent. However, on second thoughts it seemed too far-fetched; the stuff of fiction rather than fact. But then truth was often stranger than fiction, so they said.

  In the meantime he felt that it would do no harm to discover more about Janna’s life. He looked through his notes and the name Gemma caught his eye: Janna’s old school friend, now employed in the Happy Fryer chip shop on the Tadcaster Road. He smiled to himself. It wouldn’t take long to pay Gemma a visit.

  He made it to the Happy Fryer in forty minutes but when he arrived he found the place locked with a grubby ‘closed’ sign hanging in the window. He hammered on the door and his efforts summoned up a thin girl with peroxide hair and a nylon overall who emerged from a door behind the counter and unlocked the door as though she was a zoo keeper about to enter the cage of a particularly fearsome beast.

  ‘We’re not open till twelve. You’ll have to come back,’ she mumbled gracelessly, avoiding his eyes.

  He held up his warrant card. ‘You Gemma?’

  The girl’s eyes widened and she nodded. ‘Is it about Jane?’ she asked. ‘I heard about it on the news. It’s bloody awful. I just can’t believe it.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She wavered for a second as though she was afraid that inviting a policeman in was inviting trouble. Then she stood aside. A man shouted through from the back of the shop, asking who it was, but Gemma called back that it was OK, it was for her, before sitting down at a spindly Formica table by the window. Joe took a seat opposite her and gave her an encouraging smile to put her at her ease.

  ‘You knew Jane well?’ he began.

  ‘S
uppose I did at one time. I left school and she stayed on – she were dead brainy. We stayed mates for a while but when she went to Manchester – to university – we lost touch.’

  ‘Was she always interested in the occult?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The occult. Black magic, ghosts, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Suppose she was. Aye.’

  Joe carried on asking the questions, getting answers that weren’t particularly relevant or exciting. Gemma hadn’t heard from Jane for years … hadn’t even known she was in Eborby. Jane Pyke had made no effort to keep in touch with her old school friend. She had moved on and, of late, they’d inhabited different worlds. He’d had a wasted journey.

  But just as he was about to cut his losses and leave, he remembered something. ‘Jane’s mum and dad said she’d caused trouble at school. What did she mean?’

  Gemma’s eyes lit up at the prospect of gossip. ‘She had this teacher in the sixth form. He were quite fit … dishy like … and she had a bit of a thing about him. She got a bit obsessed if you ask me. Any road, she put it about that she were having it off with him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She did that sort of thing … made trouble for people … thought it were a laugh. Any road, the head got to hear somehow and the teacher got suspended or whatever you call it. He were off work for a year and Jane stuck to her story … played the little victim.’ She snorted. ‘And the head believed every word, stupid bugger.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  Gemma laughed. ‘Did I heck as like? I knew Jane. She were enjoying every minute.’

  ‘But you never thought to tell the head she was lying?’

  ‘She were my mate,’ she said by way of explanation as if the schoolgirls’ code of honour excused everything. ‘Any road, I’d left school by then.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Well, the teacher, he had some sort of breakdown. I heard later that he was in a bad way … in hospital, like. Then one of the other girls decided it had all got out of hand and went to tell the head it were a pack of lies.’