Seeking the Dead

by Kate Ellis

  ‘There’s the M62,’ Emily said hopefully.

  ‘Yeah but …’

  ‘OK, Sunny, I take your point. It’s unlikely. Someone’s still going through the list of purchases from the shop?’

  Sunny nodded. ‘What about employees, ma’am?’ ‘We’re getting everyone who works there to give an account of their movements on the days in question.’

  ‘So it’s just a matter of keeping our fingers crossed that this Resurrection Man doesn’t take it into his head to kill again in the meantime?’

  Emily looked up and attempted a smile. The last thing she needed at that moment was DS Sunny Porter’s optimism.

  The bonds were tight, cutting off the circulation to Terry Jevons’s wrists and ankles. And he felt sick and light-headed. The air was running out.

  There was an exhibit in the House of Terrors … a reconstruction of a Victorian tomb with a bell above it so that if someone was mistakenly buried alive they could give the signal to the living that all was not well. But here there was no bell … and no escape. Just a pitch-black tomb. And death.

  He could feel his life ebbing away and he was seized with the bitter thought that it shouldn’t have been him who was facing death … it should have been the woman. It should have been Gloria. Her life should have drained away with her blood as the greatest taboo of all was broken. Death. He had been so looking forward to it, to wielding that ultimate power. But now the tables had been turned.

  He thought of that night when the lights had gone out and the terror had begun. The woman, Gloria, had started screaming while the girl, Amy, had been paralysed, unable to speak … as if she had glimpsed hell itself.

  In that dark room at the back of the Black Hen he had brought Jack Wendal amongst them – they called him by his real name at the Black Hen: Jack Devilhorn was for tourists – and then Wendal in his flesh, the flesh of the Master, had enjoyed the girl’s body. They had touched evil.

  And he had planned to go even further, to push the boundaries to their very limit. Everyone had drawn straws for the privilege of taking part in the ultimate ritual and Gloria had drawn the shortest. He had never seen anyone so terrified. But when she had run out he had stood there smiling as if he had some secret knowledge … an insight into their souls. He knew she’d be back. She wouldn’t be able to resist it.

  He had heard rumours that the girl, Amy, had seen a priest … the enemy. And a psychiatrist too. The rumours said that Gloria had gone mad and attacked some innocent motorist who’d offered her a lift. The local paper had said that the motorist’s name was John Wendal, commonly known as Jack. What an unfortunate coincidence. A turn of fate that would almost be funny if the consequences hadn’t been so tragic. The parents of this John Wendal had had no idea what they were doing when they’d given him the same name as the evil one. But they’d had no involvement in the Black Hen’s dark world so how could they have known? John Wendal had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and the two worlds – the dark and the everyday – had collided. His name had been his misfortune.

  In his domain at the House of Terrors and the Black Hen, amongst his fearful faithful, Terry Jevons had felt all powerful. Even the police hadn’t been able to touch him. But now he lay there naked, his flesh soiled with his own excrement, he began to cry, dry, painful tears as he gasped for breath.

  It was almost over. And the devil would soon receive his own.

  The killer had received the signal loud and clear. Although he hadn’t expected the next one to be named so soon.

  Another woman. He liked the women. He liked returning to them after a few hours and lifting the lid. He experienced such ecstasy as he looked into their pleading, helpless eyes, ecstasy that always resulted in an explosion of pleasure in his loins. He sometimes wondered whether he would do it for his own satisfaction if there were no more tasks for him to perform; no more servants of evil to dispose of because they presented a threat to the world and to himself. Maybe he would carry on. He had the equipment all set up. And he’d always choose women.

  He looked at the name and smiled. Then he said it softly to himself, relishing the sound. Carmel.

  Carmel Hennessy would be next.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On his way back from the hospital Joe Plantagenet knew he had two choices: he could return to the office to have a word with Emily Thwaite about her husband’s past or he could follow up an idea of his own. But, as the question of Emily needed some thought, he decided on the second option.

  According to Carla Yates’s ex-husband, the Resurrection Man’s first victim had once worked at a travel agent’s on Sheepgate and had embarked on an ill-fated affair with the owner who had met an untimely, if natural, death, which resulted in his wife inheriting the business, leaving Carla high and dry.

  Joe thought it highly unlikely that the wronged wife had opted for the ultimate vengeance – murder. After all, she had had her revenge in the form of her errant husband’s will. But there might still be something to discover, either from the widow of Carla’s late lover or from one of her former colleagues – if any of them still worked there. These days people moved on.

  There was only one travel agent on Sheepgate and that was Corser’s. Joe assumed that this was the place where Carla had once worked but it hardly looked like a small family concern. Instead it had a streamlined, corporate appearance, its interior sleek and up to date. The predominant décor was blue and yellow, shades intended to remind the passerby of sea and sun, of balmy days far away from Yorkshire’s frequently glowering skies.

  He pushed open the glass door and stepped inside. Behind the pale wood counter sat three women; one young and dark wearing lashings of make-up; one young with short brown hair; and the third a plump mother figure with short grey hair and a seen-it-all expression. All three wore an unflattering uniform of navy skirt and blue and yellow patterned blouse and all three looked up eagerly as he stepped over the threshold.

  The eldest enquired politely if she could help him as if her seniority entitled her to have first pick of the customers. The other two looked on glumly as their colleague prepared to grant Joe’s every holiday wish.

  But she was to be disappointed. Joe produced his identification and asked if the owner was about. After explaining that Corser’s was now owned by Sunnyside Travel Ltd, a chain that operated all over the north of England, the woman introduced herself as Valerie Johnson, the manageress, and inclined her head, awaiting the next question.

  Joe wasn’t holding out much hope that anyone at Corser’s would be of any use to him. Time had moved on and, no doubt, so had all the staff who’d worked with Carla Yates and her boss and lover, Peter Hale. But he asked the question anyway.

  ‘How long have you worked here, Mrs Johnson?’

  Valerie Johnson smiled. ‘Longer than I care to remember.’ She glanced at her colleagues. ‘The girls say that when I first started at Corser’s we were offering trips to see the dinosaurs in their natural habitat. It must be thirty years at least.’

  Joe returned her smile. ‘You’ll remember Carla Yates then?’

  Valerie rolled her eyes to heaven. ‘Oh, I remember Carla all right.’ She suddenly assumed a solemn expression. ‘I heard about her murder. Terrible. I mean I can’t say I liked her very much but you wouldn’t wish that on your worst enemy, would you?’

  ‘At the moment we’re trying to find out everything we can about the victims; trying to establish a possible link between them. I believe Carla had an affair with the man who owned this place at the time … Peter Hale.’

  Valerie raised her eyebrows, surprised at the depth of his knowledge. ‘I could have warned her it’d all end in tears. It was his wife I felt sorry for. Then he died suddenly of a heart attack and it turned out Mrs Hale inherited the lot. Most people working here at the time thought it was divine justice, I can tell you.’

  ‘So Carla wasn’t popular?’

  ‘Not particularly. She was all right but …’

  ‘And Mrs Hale?
I presume she’s not still running the place?’

  ‘She sold the business soon after she inherited. It’s changed hands a couple of times since then.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She was a nice woman … quiet. Not really a businesswoman so it’s probably a good job she didn’t keep the place on.’

  ‘So you don’t know where I can find her?’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve no idea. For all I know she might even have moved out of the area. After all she had no ties. She had a child but it died, you know. Tragic.’

  ‘What happened, do you know?’

  ‘Mr Hale never talked about it. But I sometimes wonder if that’s what made him start the affair with Carla. I mean, these things can affect people in different ways, can’t they?’

  ‘Was Carla ever into the occult or anything like that?’

  Valerie shook her head. ‘I think she read her horoscope in the paper but that was about it.’ Her eyes lit up with curiosity ‘Why? You don’t think these Resurrection Man murders have anything to do with black magic, do you?’ She gave a theatrical shudder and Joe guessed that she was enjoying the tale of horror and murder experienced at a safe distance.

  Joe gave the discreet, official reply that they were following a number of leads and changed the subject. ‘What was Mrs Hale’s Christian name, can you remember?’

  Valerie shook her head. ‘No. She was the boss’s wife so we always called her Mrs Hale in those days.’ She frowned, trying to recall some long-forgotten data from the back of her mind. ‘Oh, I remember her coming in after her husband died and someone calling her … oh, what was it?’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember.’

  ‘It’s probably not important,’ said Joe. He was speaking the truth. He was clutching at straws, wasting his time. As far as the murders were concerned it surely didn’t matter that one of the victims had run off with someone else’s husband many years ago. The Resurrection Man murders were the work of a madman. And the victims were probably chosen for a reason other than their past transgressions.

  As Valerie Johnson showed him off the premises, his eyes were drawn to the bright posters on the wall, sunbaked scenes of sandy beaches and hilltop villages framed against azure skies.

  When they caught the Resurrection Man he might give himself a treat and take a holiday. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long.

  When he got back to the police station he found Emily Thwaite in the CID office, checking on progress. He stood in the doorway and watched her for a while, approving of the fact that she was a hands-on boss … unlike some.

  He steeled himself. He had to tell her what he’d discovered about Janna Pyke’s past but he wanted to do it tactfully so he walked up to her and whispered in her ear that he wanted a word in private before drawing her away from the assembled team. She allowed herself to be led to the privacy of her office where she sat down and looked at him, a challenge in her eyes.

  ‘Emily, I need to talk to you about something.’

  Her eyes widened for a split second, as though she’d guessed what he was about to say.

  ‘It’s about your husband. It’s Jeff, isn’t it?’

  ‘What about him?’ she asked almost in a whisper.

  ‘Did Janna Pyke once accuse him of …’

  She knew there was no point in denying it; no point in prolonging the agony of waiting while Joe dug further and further until he hit on the truth. ‘I suppose that Gemma told you all about it when you went to see her?’

  ‘Yes. She said his name was Timmons. I saw your kids’ paintings on the wall and …’

  Emily leaned towards him. ‘Look, it’s not something I wanted everyone to know. She caused a hell of a lot of trouble for us and Jeff’s never really got over being accused like that of something he never did.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Come on, Emily, I know you’re the boss but it’s confession time.’

  Their eyes met and she gave him a bitter smile. ‘Once a priest, always a priest, eh.’

  ‘You’re either going to tell me everything or I’ll have to go to the Super and tell him you’re personally involved in the case.’

  ‘After my job?’ she said sharply.

  Joe shook his head. ‘No, I’m just trying to make sure this investigation doesn’t get screwed up.’ He hoped he hadn’t sounded too self-righteous but he had to know the truth. ‘Go on. What happened between Jane Pyke and your husband?’

  Emily sighed. ‘Jane Pyke had a crush on him. Only it was more than a crush, it was more like an obsession. Then when he made it clear to her that he wasn’t interested, she made up all these ridiculous accusations. She was a vindictive little bitch with a nasty imagination. When she went off to Manchester, we thought we’d seen the last of her.’

  ‘Until she turned up dead.’

  She stood up. ‘She was evil, Joe. Nasty. Trouble followed her round like a bad smell. If she saw anything good she had to spoil it. And, by the sound of it, she was involved in the Black Hen business. Still causing grief.’

  Joe wasn’t sure whether to put his next thought into words. The best place to hide a tree is in a forest – the best place to hide a murder is in a series of murders.

  ‘You can’t suspect Jeff, surely?’ she said suddenly as though she’d read his mind.

  Joe opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. Of course the idea was ridiculous. The way Janna Pyke had behaved, she would have made plenty of enemies in her relatively short life. Jeff Timmons would only be one of many.

  Emily grabbed his arm. ‘Look, Joe, you’ve just got to trust me. I can prove that Jeff has absolutely nothing to do with this.’

  He looked into her eyes. She looked tired, as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

  ‘He’s not involved, Joe. He didn’t even know she was in Eborby till her murder was on the news. I can prove it, I know I can.’

  Joe knew that at that moment he held the advantage. He could blight her career in Eborby – maybe step into her shoes. All he had to do was speak to the Super – imply she had some involvement in the case that might call her impartiality into question. But he knew all about temptation – how you could be offered all the riches of the world for an act of betrayal. And he knew that riches turn sour and you have to live with yourself afterwards.

  Joe considered his options for a few moments. ‘I’ll leave it with you then,’ he said before turning away.

  At eight thirty the next morning Little Marygate was quiet. It had rained during the night and the flagstones glistened in the weak sun as Doris hurried to her post at the Mirebridge Hospice shop. As the temporary keeper of the keys while the manageress was away in Tenerife, it was her responsibility to open up the shop and the burden weighed heavy on her thin shoulders. Someone younger should have been given the task. It was really too much at her time of life. And she still hadn’t recovered from the shock of discovering Harold Uckley’s clothes and her subsequent interrogation by the police … although, to give them their due, they had been sympathetic.

  She took the keys from her capacious handbag and looked around suspiciously. You heard such awful things nowadays about muggers and the like: for some the temptation of an elderly, defenceless lady’s handbag would be too much to resist. But it seemed that her fears were unfounded. The few people around her, hurrying to work and intent on their own concerns, weren’t giving her a second glance. She was safe for now.

  As she inserted the key into the lock she noticed the black bin liner leaning against the shop wall. Couldn’t people read? The notice was up there in the window asking that nothing should be left on the pavement outside when the shop was shut. But people these days thought rules didn’t apply to them. Doris pressed her lips together in disapproval as she bent to pick up the offending article. Little pools of last night’s rain lay in its folds and crevices and cascaded on to her shoes as she raised it off the ground, causi
ng her to curse its thoughtless donor afresh.

  She carried it inside the shop and dumped it on the floor. Ethel would arrive soon to supervise the sorting of donated clothes in the back room. But in the meantime, Doris thought, there was no harm in having a quick peek at what had been left. She opened the bag up and looked inside. And when she recognised the carrier bag lying within, her hands began to tremble. The Archaeology Centre. It was another of them.

  Doris took deep breaths. She had to keep calm. She ran to the kitchen and donned the rubber gloves that the ladies wore when washing the teacups. She would feel foolish if her suspicions turned out to be wrong, but she had to check what was inside. It could well be something quite innocent … children’s clothes maybe. With gloved hands she opened the bag carefully and her heart lurched. Black clothes. An ethnic bag, glittering with tiny mirrors, with the purse, student ID card and keys still inside.

  She dropped the bag as though it was red hot. It was her. The last victim. It was Janna Pyke. ‘Not again,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Not again.’

  Doris was shaking as she rang the police. All this excitement was really too much for a woman of her age.

  When she arrived at the office, Emily Thwaite had said nothing to Joe about their conversation the night before. She still needed time to think. Jeff had been giving the children their breakfast when she’d left the house at twenty to eight, and she’d given each member of the family in turn a perfunctory kiss before hurrying out to work to a chorus of whinges and bleats of ‘Mummy’. She wondered whether Jeff had sensed that something was wrong. The previous evening he’d seemed distant and had said little to her once the children were in bed.

  She began the day by asking Jamilla to double-check the alibis of everyone working at the Archaeology Centre on the days the victims disappeared and the time when Harold Uckley’s clothes were dumped in Little Marygate. It was a boring, routine job but someone had to do it. She sat down at her ordered desk, knowing that she should make the phone call that would confirm or blow apart Jeff’s story about how he came to have blood on his shirt. But when she picked up the receiver her heart sank. She’d leave it till later when she was less busy, she thought, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t just making excuses to put off the moment of truth.