Kissing the Demons (10 page)

‘I came to a party in Eborby once – a friend of a friend from the university who had a flat overlooking the river. We came for a drink here the day after. I remembered it.'

‘And you never thought to try to contact your sister before that?'

‘I've been abroad leading a busy life. I thought I had a lifetime to get in touch with Kaitlin again. How was I to know she'd been murdered?'

Joe looked round. A group of students were passing their table, making for the pub. One of them looked at Joe curiously. ‘Keep your voice down,' he hissed.

‘You admitted at the inquest that you'd had a row. You said you'd argued and she stormed off. And the hotel receptionist saw you going after her.'

‘Of course I went after her. I was worried.'

‘He said you'd had a lot to drink.'

‘I challenged that at the inquest. We'd had some wine with a meal but . . .'

‘You were drunk. You went after her. You met her on the cliff path then you pushed her. And I'm going to prove it.'

Joe heart sank as he looked into his sister-in-law's eyes, cold and determined. Kaitlin had always said that Kirsten was used to getting whatever she wanted. The spoiled little sister.

‘You can't prove it, Kirsten, because it didn't happen like that.'

‘What were you arguing about?'

Joe hesitated. Why should he tell her? He owed her nothing. On the other hand, why not? It would show he had nothing to hide. ‘We were arguing about you, if you must know. She'd not heard from you since you stormed out of the wedding and she was worried. She wanted to go and look for you. She was the elder sister and she had this misguided idea that she was somehow responsible for you but I told her she had to let go . . . that you hurt people and let them down. She was tearing herself apart with worry. I couldn't let her carry on like that. That's all I've got to say.' He stood up. ‘Goodbye, Kirsten.'

He began to walk away. Kirsten's arrival had shocked him and he knew she could make trouble for him. And he didn't have time for trouble right now.

He half walked, half ran back to his flat, past the bright shop windows and the busy eating places.

When he got home he saw there was a message for him on his answering machine. Then he realized his mobile was still switched off. He'd been out of touch with the world for the past couple of hours. He listened to Emily Thwaite's message about the TV sighting of Pet Ferribie and he felt a frisson of excitement, glad of anything that would banish Kirsten's bitter, accusing face from his head.

As Monday morning dawned it looked as though the promise of a Yorkshire spring was over for the moment. The clouds had ganged together to form as mass of dirty grey and, although it wasn't raining yet, it looked as if those who ventured out without an umbrella or hood were on borrowed time.

Things were quiet at Bearsley Leisure Centre after the early morning rush of swimming enthusiasts trying to get a few lengths in before they set off for work. And Den Harvey took advantage of the lull to sneak out for a quiet cigarette. He knew that smoking was bad for his health but he was sick and tired of everyone he worked with at the leisure centre going on at him about it. He was sick of all those No Smoking signs and sick of feeling persecuted. And now his doctor was having a go at him about his diet and his weight as well.

But when he got home that evening Den would sneak up to his room and take his revenge on all of them, slaughtering them on his computer screen, seeing them disintegrate at the touch of a button. They might try and control his working life and his body but they couldn't control his mind.

Den stood amongst the bins at the back of the leisure centre, breathing in the aroma of rotting rubbish blended with the beloved scent of a newly lit cigarette. He tugged his tracksuit bottoms up and looked around. The back of the centre was the place other people avoided; the neglected backside of the ugly building. But it was Den's domain. His territory. He felt safe here.

When he heard his name being called, he froze, the hand holding the cigarette half way up to his lips. He took a step back into the shelter of the tall industrial bins and stood there perfectly still, hoping the boss wouldn't find him.

But today his luck was out. The boss had spotted him and he was walking over, clipboard in hand. And he didn't look pleased.

‘A bulb's gone in the men's changing room. See to it, will you,' the boss said. He was a little man who reminded Den of a terrier he'd had as a child.

Den let the cigarette drop and stamped on it viciously, imagining it was the man's skull, and watched as the boss walked over to the bushes which fringed the concrete car park, thick gorse with scraps of litter hanging from its dusty foliage like votive offerings. Den saw him raise a tentative hand to push the branches aside and stare down at something on the ground.

The boss swore and staggered back a little, his hand clamped across his mouth, and Den shambled over to his side to see what the fuss was about.

On the ground, half hidden by the bushes, was a young woman, lying on her back as if asleep. Her fair hair was spread out around her head like a halo and her arms were neatly folded across her chest. She was beautiful, or rather she had been because now there was something wrong with her mouth. Her discoloured lips were parted to reveal a red mess of drying blood where her tongue should have been. She stared upwards with horrified eyes as though she was looking into the depths of hell.

‘Call the police,' the boss said quietly.

Den hesitated for a few moments before rushing off to reception.

EIGHT

J
oe wasn't sure what was making him feel so bad; whether it was the change in the weather or the memory of his meeting with Kirsten the night before. She had his address so he'd half expected her to turn up at the flat. She hadn't, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he saw her again.

When he arrived at Police Headquarters he made straight for Emily's office, raising his hand in greeting to his colleagues as he went. DS Sunny Porter was looking glum as usual; Sunny by name but definitely not by nature.

‘How did it go last night?' Emily asked as he walked through her office door.

‘Not well.'

‘Sorry about that. Look, Joe, sit yourself down.'

He obeyed. Something had happened.

‘A body's been found at the leisure centre. Young woman. Blonde. No ID. The Crime Scene team are down there now. Once we know what we're dealing with, I can get things organized. Tell everyone the state of play, will you, Joe? I'm off to tell the Super.'

‘Is it Petulia Ferribie?'

Emily stopped in the doorway and turned to face him. ‘Like I said, no ID on the body but she fits the description.'

‘Only I had a call yesterday evening from Andy Cassidy.'

Emily's eyes lit up with sudden interest. ‘Oh aye? What did he want?'

‘He said we should have a word with Petulia's tutor at the university – an Ian Zepper.'

‘Well, if it's her, we'll be doing that anyway. Come on.'

When Emily hurried away Joe stood for a few moments gathering his thoughts before marching out into the main office, shouting above the hum of Monday morning conversation – the sharing of weekend memories – to make himself heard.

As he outlined the situation he left out the name of Barrington Jenks, mindful of the Super's emphasis on discretion. Then he broke the news about the body at the leisure centre and told them to prepare for a full scale enquiry. It was best to start with a worst case scenario: if it turned out to be accident, suicide or natural causes, they'd think all their birthdays had come at once.

He met Emily in reception and they walked out to the car park. At least if the morning turned out to be eventful he'd have no time to dwell on Kirsten.

Their destination was a short drive away through the thick morning traffic. When they arrived the leisure centre entrance was festooned with crime scene tape and a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered outside the sealed off area, craning their necks to see the action. As Joe emerged from the car he looked up at the sky. The rain had stopped but probably not for long.

They were directed to the rear of the modern box-like building where a row of huge waste bins stood by a back door. Opposite, on a patch of scrubland, a white tent had been erected to protect the body and any available evidence from the elements.

After they'd donned protective overalls they walked slowly towards the tent where the photographer's flash bulbs lit the shadows like forks of lightning.

Inside the tent Dr Sally Sharpe squatted by the body on the ground going about her gruesome business. As soon as she saw Emily she gave her a friendly smile. Then she spotted Joe and the smile became shyer.

‘So what have we got, Sally?' Emily asked. She kept her professional distance and avoided looking at the body.

‘Young woman. Late teens, early twenties. Natural blonde. Five foot five.'

‘How long has she been there?'

‘I'd say she's been dead roughly thirty-six hours. That means some time on Saturday night. Sorry I can't be more accurate.'

‘That fits with what Matt heard on the phone,' said Joe quietly. ‘He might have heard her being killed.'

Emily nodded. ‘Possibly. Has the body been moved?'

‘I'd put money on it.' She gave Joe a nervous smile. ‘But I can't say for definite yet.'

‘Cause of death?'

‘She's been stabbed twice in the heart. But there's no sign of a weapon.' Sally hesitated. ‘And whoever killed her cut her tongue out.'

Emily swore softly. The news of the mutilation had come as a shock.

As Sally stepped back so they could get a proper look Joe took his wallet from his pocket and extracted the photograph of the four residents of number thirteen Torland Place. He looked at the body sprawled on the ground, half concealed by dusty shrubs with scraps of litter hanging from their twisted branches. Then he looked at the photograph again and handed it to Emily.

‘It's her alright. It's Petulia Ferribie.'

Emily sighed. ‘At least we've got an ID. What about the next of kin?'

‘We don't know much about the next of kin except that there's a stepmother and her father's abroad. The university should have more information. We should go and see the housemates . . . break the news.'

Emily turned to Sally. ‘The tongue – would you say it was removed after death?'

Sally nodded. ‘Yes. That's one thing I'm pretty sure of. I can do the post-mortem this afternoon. That OK?'

‘Fine,' said Emily absent-mindedly. Joe knew she was thinking of all the procedures that had to be set in motion. The incident room. The interviews. Informing the next of kin. And subjecting her housemates to more questions – not quite so gently this time. Someone must know why she died. And the best place to start was at home.

‘Who found her?' Joe asked.

‘The leisure centre manager,' Sally answered. ‘He came out to look for one of the maintenance men who was supposed to be on duty but he was round the back having a crafty fag. He spotted the body and dialled nine nine nine.'

Emily caught Joe's eye. The person who finds the body is usually the first port of call. And, presumably, this one would be on the premises waiting for them like a good citizen.

They left Sally and the Forensic team to it and made their way to the building where the staff were gathered in the foyer. A couple of the young women were sobbing, others looked stunned. A young man in a tracksuit with the self-consciously athletic look of a sports instructor had a comforting arm around the shoulders of a pretty black girl who looked more bored than upset.

The man behind the reception desk was small and wiry with a shaved head and a vaguely military look. He was wearing a red polo shirt but he had a natural air of authority that some required a business suit to achieve. As soon as he saw Emily and Joe enter through the automatic doors, ID at the ready, he came out from behind his desk to greet them, hand outstretched.

‘Peter Darman, Manager. Bad business. We're all shocked; that goes without saying.'

‘Of course,' said Joe. ‘Is there somewhere private we can . . . ?'

‘We'll need to speak to all the staff,' said Emily as Darman led them behind the front desk into a small office bearing the legend ‘Manager' on the door. ‘Someone might have seen or heard something suspicious. And I presume you have CCTV here?'

Peter Darman's well scrubbed cheeks turned a delicate shade of red. ‘Well . . . er . . . actually it hasn't been working for the past few weeks. I've put a request in to the Council for it to be fixed but these things take time.'

‘Your maintenance staff couldn't deal with it then?' said Joe.

‘No. It's a specialist job, or so they say at the council offices. Please sit down.'

Joe and Emily made themselves comfortable.

‘Is there anywhere I can conduct interviews?' Emily asked sweetly.

‘Of course, Chief Inspector. You can use this office if you like.'

This was what Joe knew she was hoping for. She nodded a gracious acknowledgement of the manager's selfless generosity with his personal space and got down to business.

Darman didn't need much encouragement to launch into a detailed account of how he discovered the body. He spoke as though he had gone over the story time and time again in his head, which he probably had. Joe always liked a thorough witness.

Soon it was Darman's turn to give up his seat behind the desk to Emily and call in his staff one by one.