by Kate Ellis
He was relieved to see that nobody was watching the workshop car park. He’d been afraid that the devil’s followers, who had assumed the form of policemen, might have been lying in wait for him there. This stroke of luck increased his feelings of omnipotence. Soon he would feel all powerful. Invincible.
It was almost time for him to fulfil his next task. Almost time to deal with Carmel Hennessy.
Chapter Twenty-One
The killer’s mother recognised it at once. It was the special box. Oak inlaid with brass; quite old. When she was a child all the important papers had been kept in there.
She wondered why it had been shoved underneath the bed in the spare room. Last time she’d seen it, it had been in a drawer in the dining room. She sat staring at it in the heavy silence. It was after midnight now and he still wasn’t back. She was worried sick.
She opened the box and found a small, hardbacked black book inside that she’d never seen before. A notebook with ruled pages. Filled with curiosity, she took it out of the box and opened it carefully.
The pages were filled with writing, carefully and neatly printed in blue ballpoint pen. She began to read and at first the contents just seemed to be paranoid ramblings. But as she read on, the words seemed to make a horrible kind of sense. Eborby was being infiltrated by the agents of the devil and they had to be destroyed. Someone would be chosen for the task by the Seeker … the Seeker of Souls. Her hands began to shake at this first glimpse into the mad world of her son’s mind.
She stared at the notebook, puzzled. There was something wrong. Somehow it didn’t look like her son’s writing – he had never formed his letters so neatly and precisely. Unless his illness had caused it to change in some way … she didn’t know much about these things.
As she turned the page, a few loose sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. On each sheet was a name and address, all printed in the same neat handwriting. She flicked through the papers. Carla Yates. Harold Uckley. Janna Pyke. Terry Jevons.
She sat there shaking, trying to think. Her first instinct – her mother’s instinct – was to keep silent, to protect her child. But as the minutes wore on, it dawned on her that for his own good, he had to be stopped. She had no choice.
With tears rolling down her cheeks, she telephoned the police and fifteen minutes later, she was sitting face to face with Detective Inspector Joe Plantagenet, bleary-eyed, hair unbrushed as if he’d just been roused from sleep.
He leaned towards her, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Where is he, Mrs Thewlis?’ he asked gently. ‘Where’s Tim now?’
Peta Thewlis shook her head, pain and fear in her tear-filled eyes. ‘I don’t know. That’s the truth. I just don’t know,’ she muttered, bewildered as a lost child.
She looked into Joe Plantagenet’s anxious eyes and cried out. A howl of grief. The primitive cry of a mother who had lost a child. He hadn’t come home. He was out there somewhere doing goodness knows what. She didn’t deserve this.
Tim was out there somewhere. And she was terrified for him.
Carmel’s throat had begun to hurt. There were a lot of people at work complaining of vague, flu-like symptoms and she’d feared that she might be going down with some sort of virus. She decided to go straight to bed, hoping that an early night and a couple of paracetamol would keep whatever it was at bay.
So, after making sure the lights were switched off and the door was locked securely as Joe Plantagenet had instructed, she had undressed, read for fifteen minutes and snuggled down. She was now using her bedroom again after telling herself firmly that the girl couldn’t harm her in any way. The poor, lonely spirit would probably just be glad of her presence. At one time she would have been terrified of a ghost. But now she had lived with her for a while, she had become used to her. Like a flatmate who was unusually quiet and didn’t leave wet towels in the bathroom.
Once the light was off, the moonlight seeped through the thin curtains covering the small window where, according to the story, the girl had gazed out sadly on to the green below. But Carmel closed her eyes. She was going to get a good night’s sleep and nothing would stop her.
She didn’t know how long she’d slept before she felt someone shaking her awake. Disorientated, she opened her eyes and saw a pallid face close to hers.
She was dreaming. She must be. The girl was there, leaning over her, her bloodless, pinched lips mouthing something Carmel couldn’t understand. Then Carmel woke with a start and the red glowing letters of the alarm clock told her it was five past four.
She lay there and listened, her ears suddenly sensitive to the slightest sound. A key was being turned in the door slowly, stealthily. Hardly daring to breathe, she lay frozen, her heart pounding as she heard soft footsteps crossing the living room floor. She put out a trembling hand and reached for the phone by her bed. She had Joe’s number written down somewhere but there was no time to find it. She managed somehow to punch out the numbers 999 and she just had time to whisper her name and address before the bedroom door opened slowly to reveal a tall, long-haired, figure framed in the doorway, outlined against the moonlight.
Carmel never thought that in a situation like that she’d be unable to scream. But all the clichés were true. She let the receiver drop from her hands and opened her mouth but no sound came out as the figure paced slowly, purposefully towards the bed. She heard herself whimpering, a pathetic sound, but she was paralysed with terror and she could only watch as he raised his hand.
As the blow was struck she felt no pain. But she glimpsed the girl for a split second out of the corner of her eye. And saw the fear and pity on her dead face.
‘At least she managed to dial nine nine nine,’ Emily said as she steered her way through streets that were silent as the grave. ‘We might still be in time.’
‘Put your foot down, will you?’
Emily glanced at Joe and thought that he looked remarkably alert for one who’d hardly slept.
‘Is Peta Thewlis meeting us there?’ Emily asked, her eyes on the road.
‘Yes. I’d say the truth’s just dawning on her.’
‘That her son’s the Resurrection Man?’
‘Well, Tavy McNair’s out of the frame. The patrol watching his house said he arrived home last night at ten thirty like a good boy and didn’t go out again.’
‘It’s Thewlis all right. That notebook his mother found – I didn’t believe her for one second when she said it wasn’t Tim’s writing. She was trying to cover up for him … like mothers do.’
‘Not just mothers,’ Joe muttered under his breath, regretting the jibe as soon as the words had left his mouth.
Emily felt her cheeks redden but she said nothing. As they pulled up at the edge of Vicars Green he saw that a patrol car had arrived there just ahead of them and a pair of constables were standing by the door of number five with Peta Thewlis. Her hair was unbrushed, she wore no makeup and her clothes looked as though they’d been thrown on in the dark.
‘She’s not answering,’ she said weakly to Joe as he reached the front door. ‘I’ve brought the key.’
Joe took the key from her. Her hands were shaking so much that he reckoned she’d probably miss the lock and she looked as though she’d aged twenty years since they’d last seen her. He was glad to see that Emily had placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and was leading her away. The last thing she wanted was for Peta to be present if they made a gruesome discovery.
Joe made his way up the stairs, calling Carmel’s name. He had started to pray; urgent, anxious prayers shot upward like arrows. Please let her be all right. Please let it be a false alarm.
A brief search of Carmel’s flat didn’t tell them much apart from the fact that her bed had been slept in and she’d neglected to make it after getting up. But a closer examination of the bedroom revealed a few spots of blood, dried but recent and the long T-shirt she wore as a nightdress lay discarded on the floor in the living room. Joe called out the Forensic team. This wasn’t right.
&nbs
p; As he stepped outside into the morning sunshine, he caught Emily’s eye and gave a slight shake of the head. Emily’s arm tightened around Peta’s shoulders as she whispered something in her ear.
Peta shook her head furiously. ‘I’ve no idea,’ she almost screamed. ‘He could be anywhere. I don’t know.’
Emily left Peta in the care of a nearby policewoman and joined Joe at the front door.
‘There’s no sign of Carmel. There’s a bit of blood but …’
Emily instinctively touched his arm. ‘We’ll find her, Joe. We’re one step ahead of the bastard. You OK?’
Joe nodded but he felt anything but OK. Sandra had trusted him to keep an eye on Carmel and he’d let her down.
‘Let’s not stand here,’ she said decisively. ‘You find out whether any of Kathwell’s vans are missing. And I’ll get on to Dr Oakley. Tell him what’s happening.’
Five minutes later Joe discovered that one of Kathwell’s vans had gone AWOL. But they had the registration number. It was just a question of finding it.
After driving round and round for what seemed like an age, Tim had reached the cemetery, only to find that the gates were shut and fastened with a chain and padlock. This was the first time this had happened in months. He’d read in the local papers that there’d been problems with vandals, not that he’d ever seen anything amiss. And now it looked as though the council had decided to take action. Which meant he had problems.
He parked in a lay-by for a while but when he heard muffled cries from the back of the van, he decided to try the cemetery again. The sooner he acted, the better.
This time his luck was in. The gates had been flung open and he drove through them at a stately pace, hoping the sight of a plain white van wouldn’t attract attention. He’d tied the plastic sheeting on to the hooks at the side of the van to cover the logo just like he always did: one white van, he told himself, looks much like another.
There was nobody about as he drove along the wide, wooded pathways to the oldest part of the cemetery. To the overgrown place where worn gravestones, their lettering illegible through wear and lichen, stood or lay covered by nettles and bindweed. The place where the Gosson Mausoleum stood. He backed the van almost to the doors slowly and warily, careful not to hit any of the tall grey headstones lining the path, and sat there for a few moments contemplating his next move. She had gone quiet, which was good. He liked it when they didn’t make a fuss. When they accepted their fate.
He pulled off the wig and scratched his head. On a warm day it was uncomfortably hot to wear. But he needed it to give him power. It was a disguise to throw his enemies off the scent. And it made him feel somehow closer to his grandfather. Closer to the dead.
He looked at his watch. Seven thirty. If he waited any longer there would be people about and his work might be interrupted. He climbed out of the van and walked slowly to the great rusty iron doors of the mausoleum, looking around to make sure he was unobserved. He could hear no human sound, only the high-pitched mocking of the birds in the trees and bushes round about. But he couldn’t see them. They were hiding from him, watching from concealed branches, hidden in the foliage like observant enemies. Guerrilla fighters on the devil’s side.
For a split second he thought that it was just another bird, chirruping insistently in the background of his mind. But then he realised the sound owed nothing to nature. It was the ring tone of the mobile phone that lay on the dashboard of the van. He stared at it for a while, hoping the noise would stop. The girl in the back had started making muffled sounds again, strangled screams. The sound of the mobile, the thought that he was in touch with the outside world, must have given her fresh courage.
He had to shut it up and shut her up. He pressed the button that would silence it and held it to his ear. He had half expected it to be someone from Kathwell’s Kreative Kitchens but instead he heard a familiar voice.
‘Please, Tim. Come home. If you’ve got Carmel don’t harm her. She hasn’t done anything. Please.’
He felt his body shaking. His mother didn’t understand. She didn’t know how evil they were. She didn’t realise that they had to die. And she couldn’t take this away from him. Not now. Not when he had her there and the mausoleum was prepared. The Seeker had given him her name – made a gift of her. He had a job to do and nothing would stop him.
He was vaguely aware of screaming the word ‘no’ into the telephone, a primitive cry of defiance, before switching it off and throwing it into the passenger foot well. He had come too far to stop now.
He climbed out of the van and took the large iron key from the pocket of his overalls. When he inserted it into the newly oiled lock it gave a faint click and the doors to the mausoleum swung open smoothly and silently. The box was standing open to receive its latest visitor and he gazed at it for a while with a contented smile before returning to the van and opening the rear doors.
She lay there naked on the plastic sheet, wriggling like a maggot hooked on the end of a fishing line, her limbs bound with parcel tape and her mouth taped to ensure silence while he worked. He put his face close to hers and she could smell the faint aroma of garlic on his breath. His gloved hands touched cheeks that were damp with helpless tears.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be put somewhere nice … somewhere proper,’ he whispered in her ear as her eyes bulged with terror.
He said no more as he rolled her up in the plastic sheet and pulled the collapsible trolley out of the van before manoeuvring her on to it. Her body stiffened and her resistance excited him. But he tried to put it out of his mind. There was work to do.
He wheeled the trolley into the mausoleum and tipped her into the box he’d made so lovingly: the box he’d created in the workshop at Kathwell’s after everyone had gone home. He’d had a copy made of the keys and he’d returned there in the evenings. He’d used the best wood – solid oak off-cuts from kitchen doors – and made it virtually airtight by lining it with plastic sheeting. They didn’t last long once he’d put them in there and shut the lid, securing it with chains and a strong padlock so escape was impossible.
She lay in the bottom of the box, wriggling helplessly as he pulled out the plastic sheet she had lain on in the van. It would be needed for the next one.
Then Carmel’s world went dark as she listened to the chains being fastened and the dull clang of the mausoleum door shutting. Suddenly all was silence.
The last silence before death.
‘The van was picked up by traffic cameras travelling south on Eborby Road at five to seven this morning.’ Joe tried to sound calm although his stomach was churning. But giving in to panic wasn’t going to help Carmel. He’d toyed with the idea of calling her mother, Sandra, to tell her what was happening but, if he was going to channel all his energies into finding Carmel, he didn’t have time to deal with Sandra’s desperate worry. And at that moment, he didn’t feel he could face breaking the news.
Emily pored over the large map of the local area that lay on her newly cleared desk. Some things were more urgent than paperwork. ‘Any other sightings?’
‘No, it disappeared before reaching the ring road. Must have turned off somewhere.’ He ran his finger along the straight line that was Eborby Road, the old Roman road approaching the city from the south. The van had been recorded by one of Traffic Division’s cameras but it hadn’t reached the next camera half a mile further on.
Joe studied the map. Where had he taken her? Then it jumped out at him. ‘There’s a cemetery … there down Gosson road. Left off the main road and about half a mile further on. Could that be where he’s taken her?’
‘Hardly a country churchyard.’
‘He keeps them somewhere before dumping them. Maybe somewhere in or near this cemetery. There’s nothing else around there, only residential housing.’
‘He might be using a house. An empty or derelict one maybe.’
Joe shook his head. ‘There won’t be too many derelict places round there. The house prices are too high.
As for empty ones, I’ll get someone to ring round the local estate agents … and I’ll send a patrol round there to see if they can spot his van. But my bet’s still on the cemetery.’
‘If that’s the case, why doesn’t he just dump them there instead of using country churchyards?’
‘Don’t ask me, but he must have a reason … maybe a twisted one that only makes sense to him, but there’ll be one.’
‘Let’s get out there, then.’
Emily made a couple of calls before bustling out of the incident room, Joe by her side. They had debated whether to take Peta Thewlis with them – after all, her murderous son was vulnerable in his own way – but they had decided that it was best that she stayed at home for the time being with the policewoman who had been assigned to look after her.
Patrol cars had been sent ahead of them with instructions to look out for the van, and officers were making for the cemetery to begin a search.
Carmel Hennessy was out there somewhere. Joe just prayed that she was still alive.
The two constables said nothing as they climbed out of the patrol car, slamming the doors shut behind them. The van had been exceeding the speed limit by at least twenty miles an hour. If it hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have lost control on the bend and ended up slewed across the dual carriageway, holding up the traffic. Lucky it wasn’t rush hour or they’d have had real problems.
The driver was slumped forward, his shaved head in his hands. The taller constable walked slowly over to the vehicle and wrenched the driver’s door open. They’d been on the lookout for this particular van and they’d felt a flush of triumph when they’d spotted the registration number and switched on the lights and siren, entering into the chase like hounds after a fox, adrenalin pumping. But the pursuit hadn’t lasted long before the driver, their incompetent quarry, had miscalculated a sharp bend and taken it too fast. Now they had him. And he seemed more frightened of them than they were of him.
‘Timothy Thewlis?’ the taller officer said roughly as his colleague produced a pair of handcuffs. ‘Come on. Out you get.’ He put an assisting hand on to the man’s thin arm and noticed the mess where he’d tried to obliterate the home made tattoo. He pulled at the arm but the man stiffened as the sound of approaching police sirens drifted towards them on the warm summer breeze. Reinforcements.
